


Among the Lions

by DKNC



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DKNC/pseuds/DKNC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robert Baratheon comes to Winterfell in order to bring Ned Stark back to King's Landing as Hand of the King. However, in this world, events take place which compel Catelyn Stark to accompany her husband to the capital. Now there are a pair of wolves who must navigate the dangerous political intrigues of King's Landing and try to protect their pack among the lions.</p><p>Character tags will be added as characters appear.</p><p>This fic is the fault of the lovely Averita, who sent me a "ficlet" prompt on tumblr, and I immediately turned it into a multi-chapter tale! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Journey's End Is Only the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [averita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/averita/gifts).



Catelyn Stark shook out her damp hair in the oppressive heat of her assigned room in the Tower of the Hand. While it felt beyond marvelous to be truly clean for the first time in over a moon’s turn, she could not feel at ease about anything else. The journey here had left her more than uneasy about their situation in King’s Landing and thoroughly convinced that Cersei Lannister, in particular, harbored more ill will toward House Stark than Ned had ever suspected.

As she combed her hair out, she wondered once more about Bran’s words after his nearly fatal fall. She trembled even now thinking of that day about a week before Ned was due to depart with Bran and the girls. She could still hear the direwolf pups howling and her son’s terrified screams. She’d run from the Great Keep in all haste to find him clinging by his hands to an uneven stone in a tower of the First Keep, much too high off the ground but a good six feet below the nearest window, his legs churning in the air beneath him.

Ned’s bastard had beaten her there, and he stood directly below Bran shouting to him to let go and drop.

“No!” she had screamed, fearing such a fall would kill him.

Jon Snow had turned toward her and she had seen the panic in those eyes that looked too much like Ned’s, but she had seen determination in them as well. “I cannot climb that, Lady Stark,” he had said urgently. “And he cannot hold on much longer. There is no one here to help, but I will break his fall. I swear to you I will break his fall.”

She’d felt cold all over as she’d realized the bastard was correct. Nothing else could be done. Summoning her own courage, she called up to her son. “You must drop, Bran! Push away from the wall and Jon will catch you.”

Bran’s terrified eyes had met her own and he’d nodded and looked down at the bastard before closing those eyes and letting go. He’d taken an eternity to fall, and Catelyn had died a thousand times before he landed hard against Jon Snow’s chest knocking both of them to the ground hard. Both boys lay there in the dirt not moving for a moment and she’d run toward them crying out Bran’s name.

He lay atop the older boy, one leg at an odd angle, but his eyes opened and looked at her when she fell down on her knees and reached for him. “Mother?” he’d said shakily, “Is he still there? Don’t let him get me!” At first she’d thought he meant the bastard, but that made no sense. He’d dropped willingly into Jon Snow’s arms. He’d looked terrified, and Catelyn had cradled his head against her, all the while screaming for Maester Luwin. She’d become aware of the girls and Rickon there along with several other people, and after a moment or a year, the maester was hurrying toward them, his long robes rustling about his feet.

“What happened, my lady?” he’d asked as he knelt beside her.

“He fell,” Catelyn had said bleakly.

“No!” Bran had protested. “I didn’t fall! It was . . .” Then he gave an agonized scream as Maester Luwin did something to his leg. After screaming for what seemed entirely too long, he’d suddenly gone silent and still against her and she’d feared the worst. 

“He’s only fainted from the pain, my lady,” Luwin had said quickly. “His hip was out, and I had to put it back in place. I fear one or both of the bones in the lower part of that leg may be broken as well. Help me move him so that I may tend to Jon. 

She’d forgotten the bastard entirely in her fear for her son in spite of the fact that she practically knelt on his inert body as she held Bran. The maester had helped her lift Bran enough just to move him entirely off of Jon Snow, and she’d continued to kneel there holding his head in her lap. Maester Luwin had then laid his head upon the bastard boy’s chest listening intently, and Catelyn had wondered if he was dead. But then the maester’s face had relaxed somewhat. 

“He lives,” he’d breathed. Feeling the back of his skull then, he’d frowned. “I believe he hit his head when Bran landed upon him. If the blow was not too severe, he should wake in time.”

He had, in fact, awakened three days later. Ned had gone to his room immediately upon being fetched back from his hunting trip once he’d been informed that Bran had already been awake and would recover fully while Jon had not yet regained consciousness. Catelyn had tried not to be resentful of that as the boy had likely saved Bran’s life. Still, she wanted Ned with her at their son’s bedside. Maester Luwin’s confidence the bastard would wake and the knowledge that he was well tended eased her conscience as she focused entirely on her own child’s injuries, desperately praying for him to recover quickly. 

Bran had awakened within an hour of his fall, although Maester Luwin had given him milk of the poppy for his injured leg and sent him directly back to sleep so that he was not fully conscious or aware enough to be questioned for another five days. 

Jaime Lannister had not gone hunting that day with the other men. Nor had he come running when Bran had shouted. Almost everyone in the castle had been huddled around the foot of the First Keep by the time Maester Luwin had arranged men to carry both boys back to their rooms. Even the two younger royal children had come to see what happened. But Jaime Lannister and his sister, the queen, had not, and Catelyn wondered what it meant.

When Bran had first been awake enough to be questioned by his father, he had mumbled something about thinking he had seen someone in the window of the tower and being startled, but he’d looked terrified. When Catelyn had asked him about what he’d said to her, he had shaken his head as if he didn’t remember, but she believed that he did. She also believed something or someone had terrified him and had said as much to Ned. 

At first, he hadn’t given much credence to her concerns, but at her insistence, he had gone to investigate the area in and around that tower and had returned to her chambers with a grim expression on his face. “Someone has been there quite recently,” he’d said flatly. “In the room with the window above where you said Bran was hanging. And from the prints in the dust of the floor, it would seem they left in a hurry. You are certain no one came from within the tower to help?”

“No one, my lord. The door cannot be seen from where we were, but no one came around from the door side of the tower while we were there.”

“Why would anyone hurt Bran?” he’d asked then, sitting down on her bed. “He’s only a boy.”

“I don’t know, my love. But it makes me afraid. After what Lysa wrote . . .”

She’d gone to him, and he’d taken her in his arms. “We must go carefully here, Cat. We cannot accuse the Lannisters without evidence.” He’d sighed heavily. “And now that Maester Luwin is certain Bran and Jon will both recover, Robert is pushing me to depart for King’s Landing without delay.”

“How can you take our daughters there now?” she’d asked him in alarm. “Who’s to say they will not be attacked? We don’t know what any of this means, Ned!”

Her husband had released her and stood to pace about her bedchamber. “No. And Bran cannot or will not tell us. Why won’t he speak of it, Catelyn?” His voice had grown louder in frustration.

“Maester Luwin believes that the trauma of the event may have confused his memory. He remembers something though. I know he does. And it scares him to death. But he is only seven years old, Ned! I would not terrify him into speaking!”

“No,” Ned had assured her. “We will not do that.” He’d sighed heavily again. “Prince Tommen has apparently taken quite a liking to Bran. Maester Luwin has determined that the break in Bran’s leg is clean and the bones well set, and he believes the hip will heal nicely as long as he doesn’t walk or ride horses for a moon’s turn. Robert has approached me about still bringing Bran along for the little prince’s sake, he says.”

“Ned! You can’t! He won’t be safe in King’s Landing! He cannot sit a horse to travel to King’s Landing!” 

She’d not been aware of standing up until her husband had come to her, placing his hands on her arms and planting soft kisses on her tearstained face. “I know, my love. But how do I defy Robert in this when he has already gone to Maester Luwin and procured his agreement that Bran could ride in the wheelhouse without further injury to his leg as long as we travel slowly?”

Catelyn had swallowed hard. “I fear for all of you, my love. How do I let you go from here, knowing what we do?”

“You don’t,” he’d said then. “I don’t like it, but I can’t see anything else for it. You and Rickon will have to come. I cannot be Robert’s Hand and watch our children as closely as I fear they will need to be watched. I trust my men, but with the children’s very lives, there is no one I can trust as I can you. And Bran will need extra care.” He shook his head. “I need you here in Winterfell, Cat. Gods know that I do. But I fear I cannot do without you there now.”

The anguish on his face at making this decision had shown plainly to her although she doubted anyone else would have seen it. Part of her heart had felt suddenly lighter at his words in spite of the danger they faced because she could keep them all with her together. But she knew it wasn’t truly all of them, and another part of her heart fell.

“Robb will be left alone,” she’d said desolately. “He is not even five and ten yet, Ned! How can we do that to him?”

“Benjen was no older when I rode to war, Cat,” Ned had said gently. “And he will not be entirely alone. He will have Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. I trust they will counsel him wisely, just as I had asked them to counsel you.” He smiled at her. “Of course, Robb will no doubt have greater need of their wisdom and experience.”

She’d shaken her head slowly. “How do we just leave him, though, Ned? With none of his family about him?” 

Ned had sighed heavily. “He will not be without family,” he’d said, his voice sounding almost stern. He looked her in the eyes. “Jon will remain in Winterfell with him. When this business in King’s Landing is sorted, if he still wishes to join the Night’s Watch, I shall allow it. But his place is beside Robb now.”

Catelyn had stiffened at those words. Robb was the heir to Winterfell, trueborn son of Lord Eddard Stark, blood of Winterfell and Riverrun. Jon Snow was a bastard, gotten on a nameless woman in the midst of a terrible war. He had no place. 

“Robb trusts him, Cat,” Ned had said softly.

“I know he does,” she’d said coolly. “That is what concerns me. I know you love the boy, my lord, but that does not change his bastard’s blood. What if that blood compels him to betray our son’s trust? What will constrain him with you gone to King’s Landing?”

“Damn it, Catelyn! They are brothers! Jon loves Robb, and if you’d open your eyes, you’d see it!” He’d walked away from her then and pounded his fist once on her dressing table causing her to flinch. Then he’d turned to face her once more, the expression on his face more pleading than angry. “I know well that I wronged you, my lady,” he’d said in a tight, controlled voice. “The shame of that is mine. It should not fall upon you. It must fall upon Jon, I know, but he is still blameless in the matter. I have insisted that he remain with me at Winterfell all these years because he is my blood, but I was prepared to allow him to go to the Wall had I gone to King’s Landing while you remained here because he is not yours.” She had seen the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed. “He does share blood with Robb, however, and Robb will want someone here of his blood, if not of his name or his House. I am not asking for this. I am telling you it will be done. If you cannot accept it, I ask that you express your displeasure only to me so that our farewell to our son is not a bitter one.”

His eyes had never once left her face. She’d noted in them both fear and determination and the similarity to Jon Snow’s eyes as he’d determined not to let Bran fall to his death struck her forcefully. She had ever resented the bastard’s strong resemblance to her husband, but now she suddenly saw it in another way. She knew well that her husband would rather die than allow harm come to one of their children, and she had seen with her own eyes Jon Snow put his own body between Bran and certain death. Mayhap, he would be as loyal to Robb as Ned believed he would be.

She’d returned Ned’s steady gaze and said simply. “Robb will likely be glad of the boy’s company.”

And so it had been done. Eight long days past their original departure date, all the Starks save Robb had ridden from Winterfell for King’s Landing. Robb had remained behind with his bastard brother at his side, and Catelyn had felt as if she were being torn in two as the wheelhouse moved ponderously down the Kingsroad.

She’d been forced to make the journey in the wheelhouse as Bran could not do otherwise, and she had no intention of leaving any of her children alone with Cersei Lannister. She, the queen, Princess Myrcella, and Bran always rode in the wheelhouse, often accompanied by Sansa, Rickon, or Tommen, and rarely Arya. Catelyn had envied her younger daughter terribly the freedom to ride on horseback. While she considered Sansa to be more like her of the two girls in most measurable ways, her older daughter did not particularly enjoy riding, and Catelyn most certainly did. She wasn’t quite as comfortable on horseback as Arya, but then she had met few people who were. Horses were, however, an immeasurably superior method of travel compared to the hot, uncomfortable wheelhouse and the almost uniformly unpleasant company of Cersei Lannister.

The woman had been insufferable, completely unsympathetic to poor Bran’s cries of pain when the wheelhouse took a bad bump and fixing him with an icy glare as she expounded upon the dangers of climbing walls like some dirty wild urchin to her own children. Bran seemed completely petrified of her and had said almost nothing during the long hours spent in close proximity to her. Sansa had been desperate to impress the queen, and thankfully largely oblivious to the subtle insults veiled as compliments the woman offered her. Arya had openly despised being in the wheelhouse from the very beginning, and while Catelyn had emphasized to the queen that it was due to her love of riding and exploring, she had secretly known that a severe dislike of the woman and her children with the possible exception of Tommen played a significant role as well. Given that Cersei obviously looked upon Arya’s messy braids and inevitably dirty clothes with disgust, Catelyn didn’t blame her daughter for not wanting to spend any time with the woman. Rickon, too little to ride a horse, never the less had spent far more time out of the wheelhouse than in it, by begging Ned to allow him to ride before him on his horse. Ned had almost always allowed it in spite of the fact that it irritated Robert to no end, and at times the king had simply commanded him to send Rickon to the wheelhouse. Those had been long days as Rickon was not made to be confined. Between his loud objections to everything, his bouncing about the too small space, and Cersei Lannister’s constant snide remarks about her woeful inability to control her wild children, Catelyn had been ready to murder the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Nights had been her solace. She and Ned kept all of the children with them in a single tent in spite of the odd looks that earned them from many in the royal party. They had simply felt safer that way. She had been able to sleep with Ned’s arms around her and the children all close beside her, and it gave her the strength to survive the days. On those nights when they stayed in some castle or keep and were given more than one room, it would have been too rude to refuse the kind hospitality so Ned had simply assigned Winterfell men to stay inside the rooms with the children and kept Catelyn beside him. They had kept the presence of guards within the children’s rooms quiet, but it was common knowledge that her husband would not accept a room without her, and that led to even more unbearable comments from both the king and queen about the appetites of wolves.

Catelyn had tolerated all of it with all the good grace she could muster. Temper would serve no purpose here. For better or worse, Robert and Cersei Baratheon were the king and queen, and she could ill afford to anger them. So, she had bitten her tongue until it nearly bled and taken comfort in those rare nights in real beds when she could lie with Ned, their limbs tangled and hearts pounding, as good King Robert likely bedded a serving wench and his queen slept alone.

She had thought the journey just might be accomplished without too much pain until the business with Arya and the butcher’s boy, Joffrey Baratheon, and the direwolves. Even now, alone in a sunlit room in the Tower of the Hand, she felt herself shaking with rage as she recalled that awful day and had to suppress the urge to scream out loud.

Nymeria hadn’t truly hurt Joffrey. Anyone could see that if they looked carefully at his arm. Arya had not hurt him either, although simply to raise a hand against the crown prince could mean death, and Catelyn had been terrified for her daughter throughout the entire proceeding. Arya had been missing for four days, and she hadn’t even been brought to Ned or herself when she’d been found. The damnable Lannister woman had insisted upon immediately holding a public hearing in the audience chamber of Castle Darry, accusing both Arya and the butcher’s boy of assaulting Joffrey. Arya had cried upon seeing Ned and herself, but she’d stood up as bravely as a child of nine could to answer the accusations against her. Joffrey’s tale had been different, of course, and poor Sansa had been miserably caught between her sister and her betrothed. Catelyn had been relieved beyond belief to hear Robert dismiss it as children’s nonsense and decree that both he and Ned could discipline their own children.

Then the queen had demanded Nymeria be killed, and when she realized Nymeria had not been found, coldly stated “We have other wolves.”

Realizing her intent at once, Catelyn had cried out in protest. The direwolves, with the exception of Shaggydog who had snapped and growled at a number of people, had bothered no one on this long trip. Even Shaggy had not actually attacked anyone. “Your Grace!” she’d called out. “The wolf pups here have done no wrong. And my children love them!”

Robert Baratheon had refused even to look at her, and she had realized he intended to allow his wife her way in this. When Ned, angered both by the injustice and the lack of compassion his friend showed to them, demanded that Robert execute the wolves himself if he truly believed it should be done, the king simply walked away. The hateful triumph in Cersei Lannister’s expression as she offered 100 gold dragons to anyone who could find Nymeria and bring her that pelt as well made Catelyn ill, and her ears were so full of Sansa’s pitiful cries and pleas to her father and Arya’s angry cries at the unfairness of it, that she’d barely registered what Ned said then until he had turned to walk from the chamber. 

_My children’s direwolves are of the North. They deserve better than a butcher._

As she watched her husband stride grimly away, looking like death itself, she’d realized what he meant to do. _Oh gods, Ned,_ she’d thought. _You cannot do this._

“See to my daughters, Jory!” she’d called to the only Stark man she could see right away, and she’d hurried after Ned.

“My lord!” she’d cried as she followed his brisk steps toward where the wolves were chained. “My lord! Wait!”

He’d stopped and turned to face her, his face a mask, but anguish in his eyes. “I have no choice, Catelyn,” he said grimly.

“You must have a choice. They love those pups! It will kill them to see their skins given to Cersei Lannister.  
And you know that awful woman will make them look upon those skins every chance she gets!” She’d been trembling with tears in her eyes.

Ned’s jaw had hardened at her words. “She will not have the skins,” he said darkly, and then he called out to four guardsmen nearby to come with him and continued on his way. Wondering what he meant by that, she’d followed after him once more.

When they reached the place where the wolves were chained, there was a great commotion. “What has happened?” Ned had asked.

“The little lord’s wolf . . .that black one . . .it suddenly took to thrashing about and broke its chain, milord!” one of the men replied, his eyes wide as if he could not believe what he had seen. 

Ned had knelt down beside Bran’s and Sansa’s wolves who sat eerily calmly in the midst of so many men and picked up the broken chain from the ground beside them. She’d seen him swallow. “Where did it go?” he’d asked.

“Into the woods, milord. Quick as could be.”

Catelyn had seen the Lannister men who had come to witness the wolves’ executions staring in the direction the man was pointing, and had decided to take the chance. “You!” she said to them. “You see that we had no part in this! Get horses and go after that wolf if you want the queen’s gold dragons, but make certain you tell her that we did not loose any wolves.”

Ned had stared at her, not comprehending why she would order Shaggydog pursued, but she could not explain herself then. She watched the Lannister men weigh the chance for gold against their duty to watch Ned kill the wolves.

“Those two have to die,” one of them had said gruffy, although he was already looking to where the horses were kept.

“Do you doubt my word?” Ned had said coldly, and Catelyn was grateful that he had no inkling of what she intended when he said it. His sincerity was plain enough to anyone.

“Let’s go get ‘im,” the other man had said, nudging the first. “Ain’t no reward for watching Lord Stark butcher these two.”

With a nod, the first relented, and the Lannister men went off.

“I would have thought you’d want Shaggy to escape, my lady,” Ned had said then.

“I do. And I hope my gamble does not cost Rickon’s wolf its life, but I would save these as well.”

“Catelyn . . .” Ned said, shaking his head. “I have given my word.”

“No,” she’d insisted. “You said they deserved better than a butcher. You asked if those men doubted your word. At no time did you say you would kill them, my lord. You already said you would not give Cersei the skins. What did you mean by that?”

“I would have these men take them to Winterfell. I’d have them interred there rather than warm that woman’s cold flesh.” The fury just beneath his controlled words had convinced her he could be persuaded.

“Then let them take the wolves as they are. None need know what was done or not done here!”

“Catelyn . . .I cannot . . .”

“You can! This is not justice, Ned! You know it isn’t!”

“If the deception is discovered . . .”

“It won’t be. No one will know of it but the six of us, and only you and I will remain here.”

“We can take them, milord!” one of the men had piped up then. “These two--they’re the easy ones. They won’t give us no trouble.”

“There will be men hunting you. Looking for the other two,” Ned had protested.

“We won’t be going where they’re looking,” another man had said, eagerly latching onto the plan as well. “We can take our time, milord. Getting well lost before we head for Winterfell.”

“It’s folly! To risk your lives for animals!” Ned had shaken his head.

“They aren’t merely animals,” Catelyn had insisted, suddenly knowing she was right. “They are the first direwolves seen south of the Wall in more years than any man alive has known. And there is one for each of your children. One for each boy and each girl.” _Even the bastard,_ she’d thought darkly. “And they knew Bran was in trouble before any of us did the day he fell. I heard the wolves, all of them, before I ever heard Bran cry out.”

“Please, milord,” said one of the guardsmen. “Allow us to do this for you. For your children.”

Ned had sighed. “We’ll need blood.”

“One of the dogs was attacked by something when we were searching for Lady Arya, milord. It’s lame now. It can’t possibly make the rest of the journey to King’s Landing.”

“Bring it,” Ned had said grimly, and Catelyn had known he would do as she asked then.

He’d killed the dog, and they’d let its blood drain upon the ground staining it red. The men had left with the two direwolves who’d gone as quietly with them as if they’d understood the situation. As she and Ned had walked back toward Castle Darry with Ice still stained by the dog’s blood, he’d stopped to look at her. 

“We cannot tell them,” he’d said.

“What?”

“Sansa and Bran,” he’d said, almost choking on their names. “They must believe their wolves dead. Bran is too young to keep such a secret. And Sansa . . .Sansa is like you. Everything she feels shows in her face, and she is not yet old enough to hide it.”

Catelyn had looked at her husband, at the most honorable man she had ever known, as he committed himself to lying to his children. To making them believe their beloved wolves were dead by his own hand.

“I fear you are right,” she’d told him softly. “But it will not be forever, Ned. This lie is not one you must hold to for long, my love, for I know it is not in your nature to lie at all.” She’d tried to smile at him then, but his face took on the oddest expression at her words. Before she could ask if something else troubled him, horsemen had approached led by Sandor Clegane who rode right up to the two of them.

“We didn’t find your daughter, Lord Stark,” he’d said, “But we found her pet.”

 _No,_ Catelyn had thought as he dropped a wrapped corpse at Ned’s feet. _Please don’t let it be Nymeria or Shaggydog._

But what Ned unwrapped had been far worse. The butcher’s son, or what was left of him. Clegane had ridden him down like a rabid animal, and Catelyn still saw the boy’s dead eyes in her dreams at night. Sometimes, she saw her own children’s eyes in her dreams, looking up lifelessly at her as Ned unwrapped them. She’d not slept a full night since that day, not even with Ned’s arms around her, and her children fared no better. Sansa and Arya did not speak to each other at all, and both cried frequently although Arya tried harder to hide her tears. Rickon was sullen and angry. Bran, her sweet ever happy Bran, became like a ghost, speaking even less than he had before.

No one had even tried to pretend to be happy during the rest of that awful journey, and now while Catelyn was more than grateful it had at least come to an end, she found precious little else to be grateful for. Restless in spite of her exhaustion, she wandered about her room wondering when Ned would come. He’d been waylaid by the royal steward immediately upon their arrival and summoned to an urgent meeting of the small council. He’d lost his temper for a moment, but she’d put a hand on his arm and told him she would see to the children. He’d looked miserable, but he’d agreed to attend.

She and the children had been escorted here, and she’d seen Sansa and Arya each to their new rooms. She hated seeing them so at odds. They were very different girls and had squabbled since they were both old enough to speak, but the distance between them now broke her heart. She had ordered baths drawn for both of them and left them with their maids. Bran and Rickon were sharing a room. Rickon remained furious over the loss of Shaggydog even though he knew that his wolf had run away rather than being killed. None of the men sent out to hunt had managed to find Rickon’s or Arya’s wolves, a fact which gave Catelyn a great deal of satisfaction. Rickon seemed lost without his wolf, however, and did not want to be alone. Bran, fortunately, seemed very willing to share space with his brother here, and Catelyn found herself wishing devoutly that her daughters were willing to do the same.

She had been clear that none of the children were to leave their rooms except to come to hers accompanied by a guard, and that they were to give her time to bathe. Now that the dust of the road had been scrubbed from her skin, she found herself wanting them near her and was contemplating going once more to their rooms when a knock came at her door.

“Come in!” she called.

The door opened and Bran appeared, accompanied by one of Ned’s men. She thanked the gods for the presence of the Winterfell men. She would not feel at all comfortable here without them watching over her children.

“Bran!” she said. “Are you and Rickon settled in?”

“Rickon is asleep,” he answered. “He was tired and cross, and finally quit whining long enough to close his eyes.”

Catelyn put an arm around her son and led him to sit down. He moved slowly, easing himself into the chair, but she was gratified to see that no terrible grimace of pain came to his face as had only days before.

“Sleep will do him good,” she said. “And what of you, sweetling? Are you tired?”

Bran shook his head. “How long do we have to stay here?” he asked.

Catelyn sighed. “For some time, I’m afraid. Your father is Hand of the King now. He must remain here to assist King Robert in ruling the Seven Kingdoms.”

“But he doesn’t want to be here,” Bran protested.

Catelyn bit her lip. Bran was correct, of course, but that wasn’t what she should say. “Your father knows his duty,” she said firmly. “And he will do it.”

Bran looked at her for a few moments. “Where’s Summer?” he asked finally.

Catelyn startled. He had named his wolf well after the others had--proclaiming him to be Summer only upon finally waking from his poppy induced slumber after his fall.

“You know what happened on the way here, Bran,” she said gently.

“Summer isn’t dead,” the boy insisted. “I would know it if he were dead.”

She looked at him. How could he know? Neither she nor Ned had told the children what had occurred. Sansa obviously believed her wolf dead and wept inconsolably over it still. Why should Bran believe differently?

“Why do you say such a thing, Bran?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “I don’t know where he is, but I know he isn’t dead,” he said flatly.

Catelyn decided not to focus on the troubling words, but instead on the fact that Bran was actually speaking more than he had in some time. “Sweetling, after you fell you asked me not to let someone get you. Do you remember that? Do you know of whom you spoke?”

She saw the flash of terror in her son’s eyes, but he only said, “No.”

“Bran,” she pushed gently. “Please tell me what happened that day. We will keep you safe, son. No one will get you.”

“I don’t remember,” he said quickly. “I just fell.”

“You never fall,” she said, echoing the words he had said to her any number of times.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I did fall. Can you tell me where Summer is?”

Catelyn looked at her son. “Your wolf is beyond the reach of those who would harm him,” she said finally.

Bran’s Tully blue met her eyes in a forthright manner remarkably reminiscent of his father’s grey ones. “I miss him,” he said.

“I know,” she told him. “But Bran, you mustn’t tell anyone that you believe your wolf isn’t dead. Either they won’t believe you and think you mad or a liar, or they will believe you and have your father questioned. Neither of those things can happen. Do you understand me?”

Her little boy nodded solemnly. “Are you frightened here, Mother?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she answered honestly. “But your father and his men will allow no harm to come to us. I believe that, and you must, too.”

“Yes, Mother,” he said.

“Are you hungry? I can ask to have food sent.”

He shook his head. “I want to go back to Rickon. He’ll be scared if he wakes up by himself.”

Catelyn smiled at her son. “You are a brave boy and a good brother, Bran. But if you do get hungry, send your man for food, all right?”

He nodded, and she hugged him tightly before he left her. She felt slightly guilty that she had not vehemently denied that his wolf could possibly be alive, but she had found herself unable to lie to him in the face of his certainty of Summer’s survival. _How is it that he is so certain the wolf lives?_ she wondered.

Suddenly aware of her own exhaustion, she decided to lie down on the bed until Ned came to find her or one of the children needed her. She didn’t realize she had fallen asleep until she was startled awake by the door of the room slamming shut. She sat up to see her husband, looking rather disheveled and disgruntled in somewhat ill-fitting clothes. The council meeting to which he had been summoned was apparently of an urgent enough nature that he could not wait for his own clothing to be unpacked and had been offered some to borrow when he’d begged at least a moment to make himself presentable.

He looked far from presentable now with a black look of fury on his face. He looked at her as she sat up and shook his head without a word of apology for bursting into her room in a temper which was very unlike him. “A tournament!” he nearly shouted. “I was hauled away from you and the children, unable to rest even a moment after that damnable journey to make plans for a bloody tournament!” The outburst seemed to exhaust him, and he placed his hands on a table, leaning upon it and bowing his head which he continued to shake slowly as if in disbelief of his own words.

“A tournament?” Catelyn asked as she rose from the bed and walked toward him. “Whatever for?”

He straightened back up and turned to face her. “For me,” he said miserably. “A useless, damnably expensive tournament in honor of my being named Hand of the King. And I cannot refuse it.” He shook his head again and looked at her as if he were lost. “Gods, Cat, what in all the hells am I doing here?”

She reached for him and took him into her arms. “You are doing what you must,” she whispered.

His arms tightened around her and pressed his lips to her cheek briefly before burying his face in her neck and breathing deeply as if to inhale her. “I am a selfish man,” he whispered against her skin. “For I know you should be in Winterfell with Robb and I would not have Bran injured for all the world. But I confess I am most glad to have you here now.”

“I am here,” she said firmly, “and here I shall remain.” She gently pushed herself away from him then. “Sit down, Ned, and tell me about this tournament.”

He sighed as he sank into a chair. “It’s to be terribly lavish with enormous prizes.” He shook his head once more. “The Hand’s Tournament, they’re calling it. As if I ordered it up. It’s folly, damn it! The crown doesn’t have the money for it!”

“Robert likes his entertainment, and he tends to believe that everyone will want what he wants,” she sighed as she sat across from him. “Likely, he thinks this makes some amends for what happened with the children and their wolves.”

Ned’s hard expression made it clear that this was not the case, and Catelyn almost found herself laughing at him. “I didn’t say that it did, my love,” she said quickly. “Only that your friend the king likely thinks it should.” She sighed. “Perhaps you could discuss with him at least scaling back this tournament a bit? Plan something smaller that the treasury could bear more easily?”

“The treasury can bear nothing!” he nearly exploded. “It would seem the coffers are empty and the crown is six million gold pieces in debt! Mostly to the damned Lannisters!”

“Oh, Ned,” she said. “What did Robert say to that?”

“He said nothing, Cat, because he wasn’t there! Apparently, he doesn’t do council meetings, leaving inconsequential matters such as ruling his kingdom to that pack of vipers that call themselves his counselors. His brother Stannis wasn’t there, either. He apparently went to Dragonstone as soon as Robert left for Winterfell, although I couldn’t get a clear reason why.”

“Who was there?” Catelyn asked, trying to recall who sat on Robert’s small council.

Ned sighed. “Ser Barristan is wherever Robert is, of course, so that left Grand Maester Pycelle, Renly Baratheon, Lord Varys, your friend Littlefinger, and myself.”

She noticed the growl in his voice when he’d mentioned Littlefinger. “I had forgotten Petyr was on the council. Lysa had written something of it, but I confess I paid little attention. I have not seen or heard from Petyr since he left Riverrun.” That was not strictly true as he had sent her one letter after that, but as she had destroyed it without ever opening it, she saw no point in mentioning it.

Ned snorted. “He seems to recall you well enough. He met me by declaring he was certain my wife would have spoken to me of him.” He looked at her carefully. “I told him my brother had mentioned him--often, and with some heat.”

“Ned,” she said, “That was all a long time ago. I am certain that . . .”

“I am certain the man mislikes me, my lady. Whether that is for your sake or Brandon’s I couldn’t entirely say, but he all but pronounced me unfit to be here with some comment about Starks melting when they come south of the Neck. I do not trust him.”

All Catelyn could imagine when she thought of Petyr Baelish was the barely grown boy bleeding on the lawn at Riverrun as Brandon stood angrily over him, and she clutched at Brandon’s arm begging him not to kill him. Still, she did know that Petyr’s clever tongue had too often produced cruel barbs even in childhood--most often directed at Edmure or Lysa. Given what had happened to Rickard and Brandon Stark in King’s Landing, his comment about Starks melting could be interpreted as a threat, and she knew that Ned would see it as such.

“I do not think we can afford to trust anyone here just yet, my lord,” she said. “But Petyr was always clever. He is Master of Coin, correct? Lysa wrote that he was brilliant with accounts and figures, and that Lord Arryn was very impressed. How is it that he has allowed the crown to fall into such debt? And to the Lannisters of all people?”

Ned’s face darkened at the mention of Lannisters. “I fear Robert is far more entangled with the lions than I ever suspected, my lady.” He sighed. “But I do not think I can lay the empty treasury at Littlefinger’s feet, at least. I expressed disbelief that Jon Arryn would have allowed such a thing to happen, and all on the council assured me that while Jon was a prudent man, the king often did not listen to him. I fear Robert must shoulder the blame for the kingdom’s indebtedness.”

Her husband looked defeated as well as exhausted, and she knew his thoughts. If Robert would not listen to Jon Arryn, who had been his father in all but blood, what hope did they have of his listening to Ned? She had no words of comfort for that worry as it terrified her as well, so she turned the conversation back to the members of the small council. “What of the other men on the council? What are your impressions of them?”

Ned sighed. “Renly Baratheon seemed only to be amused by everything. Grand Maester Pycelle spouted platitudes and said nothing of consequence. I swear he dozed off more than once during the meeting. As for the eunuch . . .I cannot tell. He is Master of Whisperers which makes him untrustworthy almost by default. A man whose occupation is learning the secrets of others is likely to keep secrets himself. I certainly don’t intend to share with him any of mine.”

“No,” Catelyn agreed. “You shall have to make inquiries of someone eventually if we are to find the truth of Jon Arryn’s death, but you must go slow. I would not have you put yourself in danger.”

Ned laughed bitterly at that, and Catelyn raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Your Littlefinger tells me that I am in more danger than I know. He followed me out of the meeting to speak with me as I walked and told me that while he would certainly be more than happy to see you again, he had been surprised to hear you accompanied me. He told me that I should take better care of my treasures lest I lose them.”

Catelyn was stunned. She hadn’t seen Petyr Baelish in nearly twenty years, and he was threatening her? Ned’s clenched fists told her that he had not taken the comment well, either. “What did you say, my lord?” she whispered, half afraid to hear his response.

“I shoved him against a wall and informed him that if he ever threatened my lady wife again, I would kill him,” Ned responded rather calmly.

“And?”

“And he laughed,” Ned said. “He told me that I knew him not at all if I thought he could ever harm a hair on your head. He admitted he had no interest in helping me save for your sake, but that as you are at least somewhat safer here while I am Robert’s Hand, he would do what he could to keep me from dying as quickly as too many Hands have been wont to do.”

Catelyn shivered. “Ned, what did he mean by that? Does he know of someone who wishes you harm?”

Ned sighed deeply. “We both know someone wished Jon Arryn harm, Cat,” he said softly. “And that there is more to Bran’s fall than we have yet discovered. Cersei Lannister openly hates us since Arya’s wolf bit Joffrey, and I fear that the Lannisters may have more power here than Robert would ever guess. And I don’t know what influence I can have on Robert. I truly don’t.” He leaned forward in his chair to take her hands, pressing his lips to hers quickly before continuing. “I don’t know what Baelish may or may not know about any of these things, and as I said, I do not trust him. But I will listen to his warning concerning you, my love. You and the children are my treasures, and I will not allow you to come to harm here.”

She squeezed his hands. “You should go to your room now, my love. I’ve ordered a real bath made ready for you, and your own clothes are there.”

He smiled wearily at her. “Will you come with me, Cat?”

She returned the smile. “Of course, my lord, although I would stop and look in on the children first.”

“I should like to do that with you. I’ve asked Vayon to have a meal prepared for us here. I’ve declined any invitations for us to dine elsewhere tonight as I want to be with no one but you and the children and our own men. Having the use of this tower as our personal residence is the one good thing I’ve come across here so far.”

She nodded. “I agree, and I would dearly love a meal with only familiar trusted faces about.”

They got to their feet and headed toward the door, but just before opening it, he stopped and turned to her. “I shall endeavor to do all I can for Robert as his Hand, my lady. But my first priority is to make certain that you and the children are safe and well, and that any crimes against Jon Arryn and Bran are discovered and the villains punished before they can threaten anyone of mine again.”

“I know, my lord.

“Your Littlefinger need not concern himself with your safety, for I shall see to it.”

“Stop calling him that,” she snapped. “He is not _my_ Littlefinger, and I have no need of his protection when I have the Lord of Winterfell at my side.”

He smiled at her then. “He did want to see you. I told him you were quite worn out from our long journey and would be receiving no visitors today. He seemed disappointed, poor man. I reminded him he had a tournament to finance and likely would be too busy to call upon my wife until he had figured out precisely how to accomplish that.”

She laughed then, grateful that her husband could at least still smile with her in spite of all that had happened and all they still faced. As she walked through the corridor the short distance to his rooms, holding tightly to his arm, she thought of everything he faced in this dangerous place.

 _Please gods,_ she prayed silently. _Help us protect our children, and help me to help him find our way safely through this lion’s den._

For that is what King’s Landing was, she realized. The lions were everywhere, even on Prince Joffrey’s personal banner which displayed his mother’s Lannister sigil as prominently as his father’s Baratheon stag. Cersei Lannister was queen, Jaime Lannister was a knight of the Kingsguard and to be appointed Warden of the East, Tywin Lannister was Warden of the West. And now it seemed that Lord Tywin also held Robert’s purse strings.

 _We are truly surrounded by lions,_ she thought. _But wolves are every bit as fierce as lions, and Ned has told me often enough how wolves draw strength from each other._ As Ned opened the door to his room to allow her to step inside ahead of him, she looked up at the long solemn face she had grown to love so much. He would do whatever he must, and so would she. They would draw strength from each other. _And we will prevail,_ she thought fiercely. _Even among the lions._


	2. Secrets, Lies, and Threats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place in a world created by George R.R. Martin with characters created by him. In this particular chapter, much of the dialogue is quoted or paraphrased from Martin's books even though the events in which that dialogue takes place have been altered.  
> I own none of this. It's just my own little re-imagining of how some things could have happened differently. :)

Catelyn held her head high as she walked into the small council chamber on her husband’s arm. Regardless of how uneasy she felt inside, she was determined that none here would see it. She was Lady Catelyn of House Tully and House Stark, wife to the Hand of the King. She would not tremble before any of these people.

The invitation for both of them to break their fasts with other members of the small council before the council met this morning had arrived just after they’d finished their evening meal in the Tower of the Hand last night. That meal had been both wonderful and terrible in almost equal measure. Dining in the Small Hall with only her own family and the Winterfell people present had seemed paradise after the long days on the road suffering the company of at least some members of the royal party at every meal. Even after the terrible business with the wolves, while she encouraged Ned to ride ahead of the main column with Rickon and the girls to keep them as separate from Lannisters and Baratheons as possible, Bran’s infirmity had compelled Bran and Catelyn to remain in the wheelhouse with Cersei Lannister. A fortnight spent sharing a small space with her terrified and traumatized son and a woman who wore her loathing of the Starks openly on her face had nearly driven Catelyn to madness. Taking a meal with only her own about her was paradise indeed.

Yet, even the absence of outsiders did not erase all hostility from their dinner. Sansa and Arya had sat as far from each other as possible and continued to look upon each other with hateful expressions. They did not lash out at each other for the duration of the meal at least, but Catelyn did not miss the spiteful look in her elder daughter’s eyes as she glanced toward her little sister and whispered to Jeyne Poole. Nor did she miss the murderous glare her younger daughter would fix upon her elder sister as she stabbed at her meat with her fork. Something had to be done about the situation between the two of them, but for the moment, Catelyn was at a loss as to how to repair what had broken between them.

Rickon had spoken barely a word at the meal which was entirely unlike him, and when he did speak, it was only to repeatedly ask Ned when he thought Shaggy would come back. Bran had eaten little and spoken even less. While her girls warred with each other, her boys retreated into themselves, each in his own way, and she liked none of it. 

They had been just about to leave the Small Hall to take the children back to their rooms when the messenger had brought the invitation. Catelyn’s first thought was that she’d rather stick her hand into a fire than break her fast with Cersei Lannister, but Ned had assured her that Robert was unlikely to attend the meal as he apparently did not attend many council meetings, and that even if he did attend, Ned imagined he would not welcome the company of his queen.

So, Catelyn had agreed to come, knowing that the only possible motivation for such an invitation would be to take her measure in some way. Excluding Robert, the only other member of the small council who had a wife was Stannis Baratheon, and he was in Dragonstone. It would be only the council members and her, as far as she could see, so it could hardly be construed as a social event.

She’d wondered about it as she’d taken the girls to their rooms where she’d tried to encourage each to forgive the other and find some measure of common ground. Those pleas had fallen on deaf ears, she’d feared. Ned had taken the boys to their room and then met her in her own bedchamber.

“You do not have to come with me on the morrow, Cat, if you do not wish to,” he’d told her as he’d undone the laces on her dress.

She’d actually laughed. “Neither of us wished to come to King’s Landing, my love. I fear nothing about this situation has anything to do with our wishes.” She’d turned to face him. “I will come with you, Ned. The invitation very specifically included both of us, and I shall not have these men think that your lady wife has reason to avoid their company.”

“No,” he’d said, smiling down at her. “And I suppose I should not make it quite so obvious that your lord husband would prefer to keep you as far from all of them as possible.”

She’d laughed at him again. “Well, my lord, you have me all to yourself at the moment.”

“Thank the gods,” he’d said as he’d pulled her dress down over her shoulders, leaving her in her shift. 

She’d stepped out of the dress and gone to lay it neatly across a chair as he began removing his own clothes. “Do you think they’ll be all right?” she’d asked then, her voice little more than a whisper.

He hadn’t had to ask who she meant. “They will,” he’d said firmly, and he’d come to take her into his arms, wearing only his breeches, his shirt and doublet now lying across another chair. “They are strong, Cat. And they have you here to care for them. I know they are all hurting now, but we will make it right for them. We will.”

Her fingers had idly traced one of the scars on her husband’s chest. “We must send a raven to Robb so that he knows we’ve arrived safely.” She’d given a little sigh. “Although when the men arrive with Summer and Lady, he’ll know that ‘safely’ is perhaps a bit of an overstatement.”

“I will write to Robb first thing, Cat. You should read the letter and add whatever you wish, and we can take it as we go in the morning.”

She’d nodded. “I cannot help but worry for him, Ned. I worry for all of us.”

“I know, my love.” He’d tightened his arms around her. “But we shall do what we must here, and that is how we shall keep all of us safe.”

He’d kissed her then and she’d allowed the feel of his lips on hers to chase away her fears for a moment. Then he’d pulled her shift over her head and led her to the bed in this room that didn’t feel like hers, and they’d lost themselves in each other as their bodies moved together in a dance they each knew perfectly now. 

“Stay,” she’d whispered afterward, realizing that all of his belongings had been taken to the more elaborate chambers he’d been assigned as Hand of the King.

“I have no intention of leaving, my lady,” he’d assured her as he’d pulled her close to him, and with him beside her she’d been able to sleep.

Now his presence steadied her as she walked into this lushly appointed room with its thick Myrish carpet, painted screens and ornate furniture. The two men seated at the large table rose at her and Ned’s entrance, and the man standing behind them nodded to them respectfully.

She recognized Renly Baratheon, of course, and the elderly man must be the Grand Maester which made the plump, bald man behind them in the garishly bright silks the Master of Whispers, Lord Varys. She had just enough time to wonder where Petyr was when she heard her name called out joyfully.

“Cat!”

She turned to her left to have her hand clasped tightly by Petyr Baelish who’d apparently been getting something from the small table by the wall which had food laid upon it. She was taken aback by his use of her family nickname although she couldn’t recall him ever calling her anything else, and it startled her to have her hand grabbed so tightly and held so long by a man not her husband. She had the absurd impression that the man would have embraced her had her other hand not still held tightly to Ned’s arm.

“Petyr,” she said as warmly as she could while digging her fingers into Ned’s arm in an effort to keep him still and extricating her other hand from Littlefinger’s with some difficulty. “It is good to see a familiar face.”

The face was familiar. His handsome, if somewhat sharply featured, face had not changed very much since she had known him at Riverrun in spite of the more than fifteen years that had passed. His dark hair, however was now heavily streaked with grey and lent him an older, more distinguished appearance even with his youthful face.

“Time has not touched you, Cat. You look as if you had just been with me at Riverrun yesterday rather than spent more than a decade in the frozen North.” He smiled at her as he spoke, but she didn’t truly care for his words and knew that her husband certainly wouldn’t.

“I thank you, Lord Baelish,” she said, intentionally switching to the more formal address. “But time touches us all, I fear. I am simply fortunate that I have spent my time in so lovely a home as Winterfell. Had you ever been there, you would know that while the North is certainly cold, its people are not, and I have been most blessed to be their Lady.”

Renly Baratheon laughed at that and clapped his hands slowly. “Well spoken, my lady. Go back to your plate, Littlefinger, and let Lord Stark introduce his lovely wife to these two who haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Yes, Lord Baelish,” Ned said between gritted teeth. “Do not allow our arrival to keep you from your meal.” 

With that, he propelled Catelyn around the large council table to where the other men waited, and Catelyn silently thanked the gods that he had said no more. She could feel the tension in his arm and she squeezed it reassuringly.

“My lords,” Ned said, as they reached the group of three men, “May I present my wife, the Lady Catelyn Stark.” Catelyn thought he put unnecessary emphasis on the ‘Stark’, but she supposed she couldn’t blame him after Petyr’s adolescent display. “My lady, this is Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Varys, and of course, you already know Lord Renly Baratheon.”

Each man nodded graciously to her as Ned spoke his name, and Catelyn acknowledged them all courteously.

“We are most pleased you were able to join us this morning, Lady Stark,” Grand Maester Pycelle said. “We had heard of your troubles on the road here, and I know it must be a relief to have arrived at last.”

“It is good to be out of that wheelhouse and into more comfortable chambers,” Catelyn said diplomatically and truthfully enough. “And we hope to put any troubles behind us.”

“Your husband assured us that the prince is growing stronger daily, after his . . .injury.”

Now, Ned put a hand on her arm in warning, and Catelyn took a deep breath before replying. “He seems to be recovering very well,” she said stiffly. “As does my son, Bran. After his injury.”

“Ah yes,” Pycelle said. “He’s the lad who took a fall before you left Winterfell. I am pleased to hear that he’s all right.”

“He’s not . . .” She bit her lip and sighed. “My lords,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. “I am most flattered by this invitation, but I confess that I find myself wondering why you asked me here.”

“Why, you are far lovelier to look upon than your husband, my lady,” Renly said with a grin. “If we are to be subjected to his dour face for the next several hours, you can hardly blame us for wishing to start the day off with yours.” He turned to Ned then and said, “Forgive me, my lord, but you are almost as cheerless as my brother Stannis.” 

“I fear I’ve found little to be cheerful about,” Ned nearly growled. “Have we business before us today other than this infernal tournament?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, Lord Stark.” 

Catelyn turned toward Lord Varys as it was the first time she had heard the man speak. His voice was rather high in pitch, and he actually tittered after speaking. 

“Well?” Ned asked him.

“Tsk, tsk, Stark,” Petyr said, coming back to the table with a well laden plate and sitting down even as everyone else remained standing. “This is breakfast. The business portion of this council meeting will take place afterward. Now why don’t you get your lady wife something to eat?”

“I do not need your instruction, Littlefinger,” Ned said sharply.

Petyr merely raised his brow slightly. “That remains to be seen, my lord,” he said evenly. He then picked up a piece of bread and put it in his mouth, and Catelyn squeezed Ned’s arm again.

She noticed then that Renly and the Grand Maester both had plates of food on the table in front of their seats. “Please, my lords,” she said, indicating those plates. “Do not allow us to keep you from eating. By all means, sit down.”

“I’m afraid we don’t keep servants in the room, Lady Stark,” Varys said then, coming up close enough to nearly whisper to her. “We prefer knowing others’ secrets to having anyone know ours.” He tittered again. “Come, my lord and lady, and get something for yourselves. The food is quite good.” He looked down at Littlefinger’s overly full plate. “If Lord Baelish has left us any.” He looked meaningfully at Catelyn then. “For a small man, I fear Lord Baelish has rather large . . .appetites, my lady.”

Not knowing how to respond to that, Catelyn simply let Ned lead her to the table with the food where he nearly commanded her to tell him what she wished to have on her plate so that he could carry it for her. He then carried two plates back to the large table, set them down, and pulled out a chair for her. She did not miss the fact that it was as far from Petyr’s as he could possibly choose.

Ned sat beside her, of course, and Varys came to take the seat on her other side after he had gotten his own plate. For awhile, there was almost no conversation as they all ate in silence, and Catelyn still wondered why precisely she had been invited to his meal.

“We had thought Lord Stark would leave you at Winterfell, my lady,” Pycelle said after a moment. “Your son Robb is still a boy, is he not? And you did act as your lord husband’s regent during the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

So that was it. Petyr had told Ned he was surprised by her presence. Apparently, the rest of the small council was as well. “Is it truly so hard to believe that a wife would find it difficult to be parted from her husband for so long a time?” she asked Pycelle, widening her eyes innocently.

Petyr actually laughed then. “It is hard to believe it of a Catelyn Tully,” he said confidently. “However fond you may be of Lord Stark, you have ever been a creature of duty, Cat. Family, duty, honor. I cannot imagine that you left your little boy alone to rule the North simply out of passionate attachment to your husband here.”

“My son is not a little boy,” Ned said sharply. “And you shall have a care how you speak to my lady wife, Littlefinger, if you wish to keep your tongue in your head.”

“My, my,” Varys tittered. “Surely, there is no need for violence, my lords.” 

Ned had not risen from his chair, but his eyes did not leave Littlefinger’s while the eunuch spoke, and his glare was frostier than any Northern gale. “There is, however, a need for courtesy," he said coldly. "I will not have my lady wife interrogated. Nor will I have her treated with less respect than she deserves. Her name, Lord Baelish, as far as you are concerned, is Lady Stark.”

Petyr kept his eyes on Ned’s for a brief moment longer and then he lowered them and nodded his head almost imperceptibly. “Of course, my lord,” he murmured.

“You must admit, though, Lord Stark,” Renly Baratheon put in, “that your lady wife‘s presence here is somewhat unexpected. When Robert sent word you had accepted his invitation to become Hand, he indicated that you would be bringing only your daughters and the one boy. Imagine my surprise when I met you on the road and found an entire pack of wolves with you--all of your household save your heir and your bastard.” He looked at Catelyn. “Forgive me, my lady, for I truly do not intend either to interrogate you or show you any discourtesy, but I know Lord Stark intended you to remain at Winterfell and govern there in his stead. It was in my brother’s letter. Yet here you are. And while five trueborn children certainly speaks to a warm marriage, I must agree with Littlefinger that neither of you seem the sort to put personal comforts ahead of duty.” 

Catelyn could feel Ned almost shaking with fury beside her. 

“Why did you not ask me these things yesterday?” he exploded. “Why drag my wife away from our children to question her instead?”

“Forgive us, my lord,” Varys said softly. “But you did not seem disposed to answer questions yesterday, and we thought it unlikely to find you in better humor today. And truly, we mean no disrespect to your lady wife. We honestly did wish to welcome her here. Lord Baelish, in particular, is most interested in renewing his . . .acquaintance with the lady.”

Catelyn’s head was swimming. Everyone here seemed to mean more than he said or something different than he said. She felt as if she was missing something every time one of them opened his mouth. But while she and Ned had no intention of divulging all they hoped to accomplish in King’s Landing, the actual reason for her presence was simple enough. She tired of this game and saw no reason not to explain it clearly to them, if only to shut them up.

“You are aware my son, Bran, fell. You do not seem to realize he fell nearly three stories. He could easily have died had not his fall been broken.” She could tell by the expressions on the faces of all four men that they hadn’t heard any details about what had happened to Bran. “As it was his leg was broken and his hip was knocked out of joint. It will be some time before he is truly well again.”

“Why on earth did you subject the boy to such a long journey then?” Maester Pycelle asked. “Why did you not simply stay at Winterfell with him, Lady Stark?”

“That was our intent,” Ned said in a voice that still was entirely too much a growl. “His Grace was rather insistent that Bran come along. He and the young prince Tommen had struck up a decent rapport, and he was determined that the two of them should be raised here together.”

“Ah,” Renly said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “And what Robert wants, Robert gets.”

Ned looked at him a moment. “Bran required extra care on the journey, and will require such for some time. I could not bring him without his mother, and I could not leave our youngest at home without his mother. That is the answer to your question, my lords, and had you posed it to me yesterday, I could have saved you this trouble.”

“But then we would not have had the pleasure of Lady Stark’s company,” Petyr said. “Do you not fear for the security of the North with only a child to lead it, Lord Stark?”

“Robb is not a child!” Catelyn insisted.

Ned put his hand on hers. “My son Robb is nearly five and ten,” he said. “I left my own brother at Winterfell at much the same age when I rode to war with Robert, and unlike then, the realm is at peace now. And we did not leave him alone, of course. He has very good men to give him counsel, and while young, he is wise enough to know good counsel when he hears it. I assure you, Lord Baelish, you needn’t worry about the North. There is a Stark in Winterfell, and the North is secure.” 

Both her husband’s face and his voice were glacial, but Catelyn knew well the temper that lay behind that frozen exterior and hoped desperately that Petyr would say no more.

“Very well then,” he said with small smile. “Why don’t we finish our meals, and then I can walk Lady Stark back to the Tower of the Hand.”

“I will escort my wife back to her chambers, Lord Baelish,” Ned said darkly.

Petyr sighed. “I can’t say I blame you for not wanting her out of your sight, my lord, but Lord Varys has already told you there is business before the council today that has nothing to do with your tournament.”

Catelyn did not miss the way Ned bristled at Petyr’s referring to it as ‘his’ tournament, and she thought it likely that Petyr did it on purpose.

“That business is not of a financial nature, however, so it requires your presence far more than mine. I shall take Lady Stark directly back to the Tower of the Hand, leave her with one of your hairy Northmen, and return directly. You can trust me.” When Ned scowled, he laughed. “Or not.”

He was deliberately baiting Ned, and Catelyn wanted to know why. Petyr had always been clever and was not above needling someone purely for his own amusement as a boy, but surely he had outgrown such childishness. And if not petty childishness, what motive did he have for provoking Ned so? She leaned toward her husband.

“There is no reason to pull you from your duties, my lord,” she said looking up at him, hoping he would understand what she couldn’t say. “I can take Lord Baelish up on his very kind offer and allow you and the rest of the council to get to work.”

“Are you certain, my lady?” he said softly, searching her eyes.

“The sooner you begin your meeting, the sooner you can end it,” she told him just as softly, and she hoped that her eyes showed him how greatly she desired that ending. Still looking at him, but raising her voice slightly, she said, “And Lord Baelish and I can speak a bit about those we knew long ago in Riverrun without boring the rest of you.” She hoped Ned understood that she hoped to gain what information she could from speaking to Petyr, but she couldn’t tell him more plainly.

“Very well, my lady,” Ned said. He stood and raised her hand to his lips.

“It has been a pleasure, my lords,” she said, turning to the other men in the room. Renly and Varys rose immediately. Pycelle, who looked almost as if he were napping, rose slowly after a moment, and Petyr came to offer her his arm. With a last look at Ned, she turned and left the chamber with Petyr.

Just as they reached the door she heard Renly say, “No doubt they have a great deal to catch up on,” followed by a high pitched giggle from Varys. She had no idea what the men found so amusing, but she did not envy Ned the time he would be forced to spend with all of them. 

Petyr didn’t say anything until they were out in the yard when he stopped and put his hands on her arms to turn her to face him. “You truly do look as lovely as you did in Riverrun, Cat,” he said. “And while I will not deny I am very glad to see you, I cannot believe your fool of a husband brought you here.”

She pulled her arms out of his hands. “You will not speak about my lord husband so,” she snapped at him. “You will refer to me as Lady Stark. And you will not put your hands anywhere on my person without my permission.”

“Cat . . .I mean, Lady Stark,” he sputtered. “Forgive me, please.” He stepped away from her and looked toward the ground for a moment before looking back up to her, eyes full of contrition. “Please forgive me. It is only that seeing you again makes me recall those days at Riverrun, and it is difficult to think of you as Lady Stark when I recall you and Lysa feeding me mud pies until I got sick.”

She couldn’t help but laugh then. She had nearly forgotten that day. “We were awful,” she told him. “Can you forgive us?”

“I can forgive you anything,” he said earnestly, looking at her eyes.

She sighed. “Petyr, you have always been like a brother to me. You know that. But that does not give you the right to treat myself or my lord husband with so little respect as you have this morning. I don’t understand why you would behave so!”

He looked at her a long time and seemed to come to a decision about something. “Walk with me, Lady Stark,” he said, offering his arm again. After a moment‘s hesitation, she reached out to take it. “It is better to speak outdoors and better to speak while moving,” he said then as they resumed walking toward the Tower of the Hand. “Little birds are less likely to hear you that way.”

“Little birds?”

“Varys’s informants, my lady.” He grinned at her. “You do realize you called me by name just then, don’t you? After insisting upon titles? It isn’t so easy, is it?”

She laughed. “No, I suppose not. I’ve never thought of you as Lord Baelish. But our using childhood names simply isn’t proper in the council chamber, and you know it. Are you saying that Lord Varys has spies within the Red Keep?” she asked him, returning to the more important point.

“Within it. Without it. His little birds are everywhere, my lady. I’d advise you to take care with what you say to your lord husband even in the privacy of your own chambers. I swear even the walls have ears here.”

“And you believe Varys would spy upon us?”

“I believe Varys spies upon everyone who isn’t Varys, my lady.”

“To what purpose?” 

“To his own purpose.” Petyr sighed. “I deliberately antagonized your husband, Cat.”

“That was obvious. Why?”

“I am known as a clever man here, my lady. No one trusts the eunuch, but few trust me either, and I have cultivated that particular image. It suits my purposes in procuring coin for the crown for people to be just a bit wary of me.” He stopped again, but did not grab her arms this time, allowing her to stop and turn to face him on her own. “Your husband is precisely what he appears to be, Lady Stark.” He emphasized her formal title and name. “And that is dangerous in a place where no one is what they seem to be. You should tell him to remember that.”

“He told me you mislike him.”

“I do. I have little use for Starks on the whole. I find them dull.” He looked at her carefully. “You actually care about your frozen lord, don’t you?”

“I asked you not to speak of him without respect,” she responded coldly.

“You do,” he laughed. “I can see you do.” He sighed. “For your sake, Cat, I shall do what I can for him, but I don’t know how much that is.”

She turned then and began walking toward the Tower of the Hand again without taking his arm. “Petyr,” she said, using his given name intentionally. “What do you know of Jon Arryn’s death?”

“Why, I know that he died of a terrible illness. It was a tragedy really. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really.” She shook her head as she walked and endeavored to give off an air of both concern and confusion. “I know that Lord Arryn was not young, but he had never been seriously ill before to my knowledge, and now you tell me that this is a place filled with spies and intrigue and that I must watch what I say. You told my husband that I could be in danger here.”

“He told you that, did he?”

She nodded and kept walking faster so that Petyr had to take longer steps to keep up with her. “He did, and if it’s true, and if my husband has something to fear by simply being Hand, did my sister’s husband have something to fear as well?” She stopped abruptly, and waited for Petyr to stop beside her. She looked up at him and did not have to feign the fear she wanted him to see in her eyes. “Petyr. Do you think it possible that someone . . .killed Lord Arryn?”

“I don’t know, Cat,” he said without looking away from her. No deception showed in his eyes. “Would you like me to make inquiries?”

She bit her lip. “I wouldn’t have it known that such inquiries came from me.”

He smiled at her. “I am known for my discretion, my lady. No one will know. Your own husband will know only what you tell him.”

She frowned at him. “I do not keep secrets from my husband,” she said.

“Then you are a most unusual wife.”

“I don’t keep secrets from him. But . . .I don’t want to worry him, either.”

“Leave it to me.”

She smiled at him. “I didn’t know what I’d find in this place,” she told him. “But I am glad to have found the brother I once knew.”

“I fear I am overly sentimental when it comes to you, Cat. Don’t tell anyone, will you? I have a reputation to maintain.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “I won’t make you eat any more mud pies, either.”

He laughed and then walked with her the short distance left to the Tower of the Hand before turning back to rejoin the small council meeting.

The entire conversation left Catelyn feeling uneasy. Once she would have trusted Petyr with anything. He was the first boy she’d ever kissed, when they were both too young to know what kissing was. He’d kept her secrets when she’d insisted upon swimming in forbidden places in the river where the currents ran too swiftly for her father to consider it safe. Even the day she’d gotten caught up in the current and dragged so that she nearly drowned before she made it back to shore, and he’d been white faced and terrified and ready to run to Lord Hoster to keep her from ever doing it again. She had begged him not to tell, and he hadn’t.

Yet, now, she simply wasn’t sure. She wanted to trust him. Gods knew that she and Ned needed a friend here, but she couldn’t quite be certain that he was one. She decided she would have to wait and see what came of the request she had made of him.

She spent most of the rest of the day getting their household in order and trying to spend time with the children. She had little success in getting Sansa and Arya to be civil to each other, but she did force them to spend time in the same room with each other under Septa Mordane’s watchful eye. The small council meeting broke up about midday, and Grand Maester Pycelle came to look in on Bran, telling her he would have come sooner had he realized the seriousness of her son’s injuries. He also told her that Robert had come at the very end of the meeting and taken Ned off somewhere.

She felt anxious when the Grand Maester examined Bran, recalling that he had attended Lord Arryn at his death, but she stayed right beside him and saw nothing untoward in his behaviors. He declared that the bone in the leg was knitting together nicely, and that Bran could walk on it quite well now. Of course, Bran had been walking short distances--the longest being from his room to Catelyn’s here in their tower--since their arrival yesterday.

“But he mustn’t walk on stairs or run or twist about, my lady,” Pycelle cautioned. “The hip was badly dislocated, I fear, and would come easily out again with the slightest stress. It will take some time to heal and strengthen itself completely.”

His words echoed Maester Luwin’s which at least gave Catelyn a bit more faith in the man’s proficiency, and she thanked him sincerely as he made his way slowly out of Bran’s room.

When Ned finally arrived back at the Tower of the Hand, she and the children were halfway through the meal she’d had brought to the solar. She didn’t want to dine in the Small Hall that night. She wanted it to be just the six of them. Her heart went out to her husband when he came in to sit beside her. He looked weary, dejected, and not a little bit angry. He didn’t speak much at dinner, but after Petyr’s warning, she had no wish to speak of anything important there in any event. 

When the meal was finished, Ned said that he wished to see all of the children to bed, so Catelyn sent the girls on to their rooms with promises to be there shortly, and she and Ned took the boys to their room, Ned carrying Bran up the one flight of stairs that separated the solar from their bedrooms. Rickon bounced up and down and demanded to know why Father wasn’t carrying him, too, and it made Catelyn smile. Her youngest never protested when the various Winterfell men carried Bran on the stairs. He considered himself much too big to be carried. Except by his father.

When they’d seen the boys to bed, they went to each girl’s room in turn, and when they’d closed the door to Sansa’s room, Ned leaned back upon the corridor wall. “I don’t know if I can do this, Cat.”

“You can. You must.”

He nodded. “Come with me to my chambers, my lady. I have much to tell you.”

“Isn’t there a godswood here?” she asked him.

“A godswood?” He looked at her as if she had suddenly sprouted horns or a tail.

“Yes, my lord. I would like to see the godswood, if you would take me there.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Come, my lady.”

The air remained far too hot even after sundown within the Red Keep, but the godswood did have a less oppressive feel than other places. It wasn’t the lush and bright garden of Riverrun, but it wasn’t the forbidding ancient forest of Winterfell, either. There was no weirwood here, and Catelyn was surprised to find she was disappointed by that. Her husband needed a heart tree, and she wished he had a true one here.

“Now, my lady, are you going to tell me what compels us here? I doubt you have developed a sudden devotion to the old gods after all these years.” He smiled at her.

“No,” she confessed. “But we are the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. Surely, no one will be surprised by our visiting this place.”

“I imagine not.”

“Petyr says Varys has spies everywhere in the Red Keep, and that speaking outdoors is safest. He says even the walls seem to have ears.”

“Petyr says, does he?” Ned growled.

“Don’t start growling at me. I tried to get as much information from him as I could. He claims his needling of you in front of the council was an act--that he works at being somewhat mistrusted here.”

“Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“To keep people off balance. To keep people from knowing what you really want.”

“And what does Petyr Baelish want?”

“I don’t know. He admitted to me that he doesn’t like you, but he says he will help you for my sake. And he does care for me, Ned. I know he does.”

“Yes,” Ned said darkly. “As does everyone on the small council apparently.”

“What?”

“It would seem that general opinion is that the Master of Coin is enamored of my wife,” he growled. “Forgive me if I find that fact bothersome.”

“It’s that ridiculous duel!” Catelyn said in exasperation. “That was years ago, and a far smaller and more ridiculous affair than either Littlefinger or Brandon made of it afterward.” She sighed. “Although the gash your brother gave him was large enough. It’s no wonder he doesn’t think kindly of Starks.”

“He brought it upon himself!” Ned insisted.

“Yes, he did,” Catelyn agreed. “I have never said otherwise.” She laid her hands on his arms soothingly. “He was a foolish boy who thought himself in love with me. And now he is a man who thinks himself very clever indeed, and who, by his own admission is sentimental about me. I don’t trust him completely, but I’d trust him before those other schemers on the council.”

“Flatterers and fools,” Ned muttered.

“What?”

“That’s what Robert calls them. Flatterers and fools. And I don’t think he’s far wrong. I thought I’d figured out which was which, but I swear, Cat, they all seem to be a bit of both.”

“Let me tell you what I did with Petyr,” she said then, and told him how she’d asked him to look into Jon Arryn’s death.

“You’ve taken quite a chance, my love,” he said when she finished speaking.

“Perhaps. But I made it seem as if the idea only occurred to me as we walked to the Tower of the Hand--that he’d frightened me with his words to me and his words to you yesterday. And I made it seem as if the secrecy I asked of him might even apply to you.”

“I would not have Petyr Baelish thinking he has my wife’s confidence when I do not,” Ned snapped.

“And I would have him thinking anything that might help protect you,” she insisted. “If someone discovers his inquiries, it will not come back on you. I can play the hysterical woman and apologize to all concerned for my unfounded suspicions.”

Ned’s lips twitched at that. “You are many things, my love, but never a woman prone to hysteria.”

“Well, these men do not know me as you do.”

“No man knows you as I do,” he said, pulling her to him. “And I am most glad of that.”

She leaned against his chest. “What did you learn today?”

“Little of use,” he said. “Robert is becoming increasingly paranoid about the Targaryens across the sea. Daenerys Targaryen has wed one of the Dothraki horselords, and I fear he has visions of wild savage men riding into the Red Keep after his crown.”

“The Dothraki have never crossed the sea, have they?”

“No. They fear it. I told him I’d worry about Dothraki once they left Essos and not before. Oh, and Renly showed me a picture of Margaery Tyrell.”

“Who?”

“Mace Tyrell’s daughter. He wanted to know if I thought she resembled Lyanna.”

“Why?”

“I’ve no idea. We didn’t have much chance to speak. I asked him if he’d heard from Stannis, and he said he has not heard from the man since he left for Dragonstone. Why, by all the gods, isn’t the man here, Cat?”

“I don’t know. Did the council accomplish much during your meeting?”

Ned sighed heavily. “The initial business had to do with the so-called Targaryen threat. Without Robert there, most on the council agreed that there was little to be gained from acting against Viserys and Daenerys Targaryen at this point. It would seem that Robert does have an informer in her company. Jorah Mormont, of all people.”

“Jorah? Is that where he went?”

Ned nodded. “Robert’s holding out the promise of a pardon to him for his service as a spy.” He shook his head. “From slaver to fugitive to informer. I never would have believed it of a son of Jeor Mormont.”

“I hope Jeor never hears of it,” Catelyn said. “Benjen says he was always hopeful his son would accept the punishment for his crimes and that you would allow him to take the black.”

“I would have, had he shown any shred of honor at all. House Mormont has been loyal for a long time. I’d have done as much as I could. But after this,” he shook his head sadly. “I think that Robert is wrong to trust such a man, and I told him so.”

“In other words, you pretty much went through the entire council meeting again with Robert.”

“For all the good it did. The man doesn’t listen. We did get most of the arrangements for the tournament set, and your Littlefinger swears he can come up with the coin.”

“I told you not to call him that. He isn't mine, and I don't want him to be.”

He smiled at her. “And I visited Grand Maester Pycelle after I left Robert and before I came here,” he continued. “I asked him specifically if he felt there was any possibility Jon had been poisoned. He said he saw no evidence. Said that Jon had been weighed down by the burdens of his office and not well for some time before this final illness.”

“Did you ask him about his sending Jon’s own maester away?”

Ned nodded. “The reasoning he gave was sound enough.” He sighed. “Whether or not it was truthful, who can say? He did tell me Jon had been to see him to borrow a book about lineages of the Great Houses not long before his death.”

“Why on earth would he want that?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve asked Pycelle to find it and have it sent to me. I don’t know that it holds any answers, but retracing all Jon’s actions can’t hurt.”

“No.”

They stood there silently in each other’s arms for a few minutes.

“Cat?”

“Yes, my love?” she murmured against his chest, taking comfort from his presence and physical strength.

“I have no more secrets to share, and if you don’t, either, I’d just as soon retire to my chambers.”

“Your chambers?” she asked, suddenly disappointed and hurt.

He laughed at her. “I want you to come with me. The bed is bigger and more comfortable. I lay down on it when I went to get fresh clothing this morning.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps tomorrow night.”

“Why not tonight?”

“I didn’t tell the children.” She laughed at his expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that, Eddard Stark! Our children are perfectly aware that we sleep together far more often than apart, and they are used to us being in my bed. We are in a new place, and I don’t want them unable to find me should they need me. Tomorrow I can tell them we’ll be sleeping in your chambers if you like.”

“As long as they don’t wish to find you too soon, my lady,” he told her, and she laughed.

Much later, she sat up suddenly in her bed, heart pounding and barely able to breathe. _Bran_ , she thought. She looked beside her and saw Ned sleeping soundly, the covers all but completely thrown off his naked body.

The dream was still with her, making her restless. She could still hear the direwolves howling just as they had in her dream, just as they had when Bran fell. It terrified her, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on the reason. She wasn’t afraid of the wolves. She closed her eyes and recalled the last image of her dream. Bran’s wolf, the one he called Summer, had been looking at her with those great yellow eyes. His howling had stopped although she could still hear the others. He had looked at her almost as if he was going to speak. Then suddenly he had bared his teeth and growled, snapping and snarling. Then he leapt right toward her, but she still wasn’t afraid of him. She was terrified, but not of him. As he leapt, she’d awakened.

The room was still very warm, but she’d broken out in a sweat which now caused her to feel cold as the covers had fallen away from her naked body when she sat up. She pulled the light cover up over her, but felt too restless to lie back down. She thought about waking Ned. She still felt the sweet ache from their earlier lovemaking and thought perhaps she could drive away her uneasiness now as they’d driven away their mutual fears and worries earlier.

“Mother?”

She jumped at the sound of the soft voice. “Bran?”

She peered into the darkness and saw that the door of her chamber was open and her second son indeed stood there looking at her. 

“I had a dream,” he said. “Something’s wrong with Summer.”

She felt an icy hand close around her heart. _It was only a dream,_ she told herself. _He has worried about the wolf since he lost him. Of course, he dreams of him._ She ignored the little voice in her head asking why she should dream of Bran’s wolf this night as well.

“Bring me my robe, sweetling,” she whispered, motioning to where it lay, “and come here.”

Bran did as she bid him, moving silently across the room. She pulled the robe around her to cover her nakedness and then held her arms out to him.

“Tell me your dream, sweetling,” she said.

“Something’s attacking him,” Bran said. “Something is trying to hurt him and he can’t protect himself. He wants to . . .but he can’t. He can’t get there.”

“Bran,” Catelyn said. “It was only a dream. And how could Summer be attacked by something that isn’t where he is? If he couldn’t get to it, then he should be safe . . .in your dream.”

The boy screwed up his face as if trying to understand. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But it seemed so real. I . . .I know it was real. It was like I was right there with Summer, and I was . . .here, and I don’t know, Mother, but it scared me, and I woke up and I came to find you.”

“Come on. Let’s get you back to bed. I will come with you, and I’ll stay until you sleep.” She looked at her husband who still slept soundly on the relatively small bed. He must truly be exhausted, for normally he would wake when one of the children came in. “I’m afraid this bed is too small for three people.”

“Your bed at home is much bigger,” Bran said as he scooted back down onto the floor. “I like it better.”

“So do I,” she assured him as she rose from the bed and closed the robe securely around her.

“Mother?” he asked as he slipped his hand into hers, “Do you really think Summer is all right?”

“Bran . . .” she said carefully, as they went out into the corridor, and she quietly closed the door behind them. “You know what happened on the way here . . .with the wolves.”

He stopped walking and simply stared up at her. The blue eyes so like her own bored into hers, and she could see that while he felt quite confident he knew the truth, he still needed honesty from her. “Your father never killed Summer or Lady,” she said softly. “And I believe Summer is safe because we sent the two of them to Winterfell with some of our men.” 

“You have to tell Sansa,” he said.

“We’ll talk about that in the morning,” she said rather more severly than she intended. “For now, you must tell no one. Do you understand me? No one.”

“I understand.” He allowed her to lead him toward his room. She walked slowly to accommodate his slow, limping gait. “But something scared Summer. And he’s trying to protect me. . .I mean him. I mean . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s confusing.”

Catelyn recalled vividly the way the wolf had looked at her in her own dream, and determined that she would stay with Bran the rest of the night. Whatever their dual dreams meant, they had to mean something, even if Bran’s made no sense.

“Here we are, sweetling,” she said with forced brightness as she pushed open the door to his room and stepped in just ahead of him. “We’ll both lie down and . . .” Suddenly her arm was grabbed, and she gave a soft cry as she was pulled sideways. A big hand went over her mouth before she could make another sound.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” the man holding her said in a rasping, wheezy voice, and she smelled his sour breath as he spoke. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Her eyes went to her terrified son in the doorway. _Run!_ she thought desperately. _Run to your father. Get out of here!_

“Don’t move, little boy,” the man said menacingly, and Catelyn felt a knife against her throat. “Come in here now or I’ll kill her.”

“No, please,” Bran whimpered, taking a step inside.

Suddenly, Catelyn’s dream made sense. The man was here for Bran. She couldn’t let him come any further inside. This man would kill him. She opened her mouth wide and bit down on the man’s fingers as hard as she could, tasting his blood in her mouth. He jerked the hand away from her, and she screamed.

“Run, Bran! Run! Go get your father!”

“Bitch!” the man shouted, and he tried to grab at Bran without letting go of her.

She used her weight to throw him off balance, and they both tumbled to the floor although he never let go of her. He pressed the knife to her throat, and she felt it bite into her skin. She grabbed it with her own hands and held it away from her.

Bran still stood transfixed in the doorway.

“Run!” she screamed again, feeling the blade of the man’s knife slicing into her hands and knowing she didn’t have the strength to push it away much longer. “Run or he will kill me!”

That galvanized Bran, and he turned quickly, crying out and grabbing at his hip as he did so, but he left the doorway, and Catelyn thanked the gods that her child at least would live. Her hands didn’t hurt anymore, and she didn’t know what that meant, but she could still feel the man’s hot, foul breath against the back of her neck, and her arms ached with the effort of pushing the knife away. 

Just as she felt her arms give way completely, the knife was suddenly gone, and the man was jerked away from her. She looked up from the floor to see her husband holding the man off the ground. The blade was now somehow in Ned’s hand and she watched it plunge into the man’s throat, spattering Ned with his blood.

She sat up and felt dizzy. She looked down at her own hands and saw blood flowing freely from both of them just below her fingers.

“Cat!” Ned’s voice. He sounded terrified. She'd never heard him sound so frightened.

She closed her eyes and saw Bran’s wolf again. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Then she felt someone take her hands and hold them tightly.

“Cat! Cat, gods be good, my love, you’re cut to the bone!”

She opened her eyes to see her husband sitting there on the ground before her, holding her hands in his, the blood of the dead man spattering his face and his naked chest. “I’m all right,” she said hazily. “He came for Bran.”

“Guards!” Ned shouted. “Somebody help us!”

“I’m . . .all right.”

She looked down to where Ned held her hands and saw her own blood dripping down onto his naked thighs.

“Bran . . .” she said.

“He’s fine, my love. He’s fine. You’re both fine.”

Her husband looked more beast than man with his wild eyes and his body nearly covered in blood. She heard shouts and footsteps coming toward them in the corridor. Ned leaned over to kiss the top of her head, and Catelyn Stark began to laugh.


	3. New Morning, New Questions

The dagger lay ominously in the center of the council table, dried blood still covering its Valyrian steel blade.

 _Catelyn’s blood,_ Ned thought darkly. _Mingled with the blood of that animal who’d dared put a blade to her throat._ The thought of any part of the dead assassin touching any part of his wife made him want to grab the knife off the table and wipe it clean immediately. But he’d left it bloody for a purpose. He’d have these men see precisely what someone had tried to do to his son and his wife.

“It is a tale hard to believe, my lord,” said Renly Baratheon finally, staring at the bloodied dagger and speaking into the silence that had filled the council chamber when Ned had finished his recitation of the night’s events. It was completely light outside now, as dawn had arrived more than an hour ago. The entire small council was present save Pycelle, as the Grand Maester remained with Catelyn and Bran.

“Would you like to see the wounds in my lady wife’s hands?” Ned said coldly to Robert’s brother, who was dressed impeccably, as if he’d expected to be summoned to an emergency morning council meeting.

“I assure you I meant no offense, Lord Stark,” Renly said quickly. “It is only . . .who should do such a thing? And why?”

“And how?” Lord Varys added. He, too, stared at the dagger. “That’s Valyrian steel,” he mused. “Hardly the blade of a common criminal.”

“The blade be damned!” Robert bellowed. “Have you not found anyone who knows the man yet, Selmy? My gods, Ned’s wife was attacked in the Tower of Hand! Someone must have seen him enter. What of your damned birds or whatever it is you call them, Varys? What did they see?” In contrast to his brother, Robert looked half dead. His eyes were bloodshot, and his doublet was stained with what appeared to be red wine. It was the same one he had worn the previous day, and Ned doubted that he’d been in his own rooms at all during the night. He wondered whose bed he’d been roused from, thinking it unlikely to have been the queen’s.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” Varys sighed. “Nothing at all. No one saw anyone enter the Tower of the Hand after dark, although I cannot promise that the entrance was watched every minute.” He turned to face Ned. “Did you not have guards posted, my lord Hand?”

“Of course, I had guards posted,” Ned snapped. “No one came in through the entrance at all.”

“Someone did,” said Petyr Baelish, speaking for the first time since Ned had told the tale. He looked rather more pale than usual to Ned. “You must have a traitor among your men, Lord Stark. Someone had to let this assassin in.”

“My men are all of Winterfell,” Ned said told him coldly. “None of them had a hand in this. I would stake my life on it.”

“It seems to me that it’s Cat’s life you staked on it, my lord,” Baelish replied. “And nearly lost.”

Ned was scarcely aware of rising from his chair, but he was nearly across the table, reaching for Baelish’s throat when he felt hands upon his shoulders pulling him backward. Twisting around to free himself, he caught sight of a white cloak and realized it was Barristan Selmy who held him.

“Peace, my lord,” the old knight said, his grip surprisingly strong in spite of his age. “Lord Baelish should learn to hold his tongue, but throttling him will not help us discover the identity of your wife’s attacker--or who sent him.”

“Sit down, Ned,” Robert commanded, sounding tired and frustrated. “And you refrain from maligning Lord Stark’s men, Littlefinger. And have a care how you speak of Lady Stark as well.”

Ned continued to glare at Littlefinger, but he sank back into his chair, and he heard Robert sigh heavily. 

“I meant no offense,” Lord Baelish said in his irritatingly polished voice. “I am very . . .fond . . .of Lady Stark, and I fear that hearing of her injuries may have caused me to speak injudiciously. Yet, I still say it would be wiser to suspect every man in your command than to trust them blindly, my lord.” A small smile played about the man’s mouth, and Ned wanted to smash his fist into it.

“I trust my men,” he repeated in a low voice. “They have earned that.”

Littlefinger shrugged slightly. “Well then, as Lord Stark assures us that his men are certain that no one came in through the entrance of the Tower of the Hand, and Lord Stark’s men are to be considered above reproach, are there other ways into the Tower of the Hand? And who would know of such ways?”

Ned saw nearly every eye in the room turn toward the eunuch.

“Well,” Varys said thoughtfully. “This is an old fortress, my lords. And much about it has been forgotten. There are any number of passageways in the Red Keep known to very few people and likely some known to no one still living. I am familiar with quite a few of them myself, particularly in Maegor’s Holdfast. But I fear I am unaware of any in the Tower of the Hand.” Varys looked directly at Ned then. “Of course, that does not mean there aren’t any, my lord. I would, in fact, be surprised if there are not. I could have the Tower searched carefully for hidden entrances that might lead to such passageways, if you like.”

The idea of the eunuch or anyone under his control searching through his family’s living quarters made Ned’s skin crawl, but the idea that there were secret ways by which killers could appear in his children’s bedchambers alarmed him more. “I would have my own men search,” he said after a moment, “And I would be grateful for your assistance in their search, my lord. But not today. I would have my son and my lady wife undisturbed today. In the mean time, I will post guards within my family’s chambers as well as without.”

Varys nodded his acquiescence.

“But why?” Renly Baratheon said then, and for a moment Ned thought he asked why guards were necessary inside the rooms where his children slept. Then he realized he only repeated his original question. “Why would this man attack Lord Stark’s wife?”

“He didn’t come for Catelyn,” Ned said darkly, remembering all she had told him. He had worried she’d taken leave of her wits when she’d begun laughing in his arms as her blood had poured from her hands onto him. She’d continued laughing even as he’d ordered one of the men who had rushed into the room to rip cloth from the coverings on Bran’s bed so that he could press it to her palms to staunch that red flow. Then she’d whispered to him of dreams and direwolves as he’d scooped her into his arms and carried her back to her own chamber to lay her on the bed beside Bran. Her eyes had only become completely focused again at the boy’s cry of pain when her weight sinking into the bed jostled his leg.

“Bran!” she’d cried. “You are hurt!” And instantly her own her hurts were forgotten. “His hip, Ned!” she’d said urgently. “Pycelle said running could cause it to come out again. Send someone for him!”

Ned had been loath to entrust the care of his son or his wife to the Grand Maester, but with good Maester Luwin far to the north in Wintefell, he had little choice, and he’d sent for the man.

While they waited, Catelyn had spoken soothingly to Bran, and Ned had pressed tightly against the cloths he’d wound round her hands. Her presence had seemed to comfort their son, and when he’d closed his eyes, Cat had turned her blue eyes toward Ned and told him, in a surprisingly calm and coherent manner considering the pain she must have been in, precisely what had occurred in Bran’s room.

“He came to Bran’s room, not my wife’s,” Ned reminded the council now. “And he told her she wasn’t supposed to be there. She said he looked confused and even alarmed by her presence, as if he didn’t know what to do with her.”

“The question remains,” Renly said. “Why would this man want to harm your boy?”

“A kidnap?” Varys suggested. “According to Ser Barristan, the man appears to have been a lowborn ruffian of some sort. Such men are oft motivated by greed. Mayhap he sought a ransom?”

“Oh, I am certain he acted for greed,” came Selmy’s voice from directly behind Ned. Apparently, he did not trust Ned to remain still if Littlefinger offered more insulting words because the Lord Commander had not returned to his place beside Robert. “But I’d wager it’s payment he was after, not ransom.”

“You think he was a catspaw?” Robert asked, leaning forward in his chair. 

Selmy responded, “I do,” and Ned nodded in agreement, pleased that the knight, at least, had seen what seemed so obvious to him. He remained silent and allowed the older man to speak.

“I have seen the man Lord Stark killed,” Ser Barristan continued. “I do not know him. Nor did any man of the Kingsguard or Janos Slynt or the other men of the City Watch I had him bring to look upon the man’s corpse. It would seem no one in the Red Keep ever laid eyes on him before. Or at least none will admit to it.”

“So, we don’t know anything about him,” Renly said.

“I don’t know who he is, but I know what sort of man he is,” Selmy replied grimly. “His appearance, his clothing---we’d have better luck asking after him in Flea Bottom than in the Red Keep, if anyone there would actually answer our questions. The man obviously comes from such a place.” He nodded at the dagger on the table. “How would such a man come to wield a knife of Valyrian steel, my lords? It had to be given to him for his task.”

“By whom?” Robert asked in exasperation, rubbing his face with his hands.

Ned had sat among these men, listening as they spoke of the attack on his family as if it were some interesting puzzle to be solved, quite long enough. He rose to his feet again, and grabbed the knife from the table, holding it up in front of him.

“By whomever wanted my son dead!” he shouted angrily. “Such a deadly blade is hardly required to merely restrain a boy of seven years so that he might be carried off. This knife is meant for deadlier purposes. And it is not a knife that came from Flea Bottom! No one in the Red Keep may know the man I stuck with it, but someone here must know this blade!”

He looked at all the men seated around the table, and while they all stared at the dagger, he saw no obvious recognition on their faces. When he finished speaking, he realized that Ser Barristan had laid a hand on his shoulder once more--only one this time--and more as a reminder than a restraint.

“I can take the dagger, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said stepping around Ned to look toward Robert at the head of the table. “I can show it around and see what I can learn.”

Robert nodded. “Do that,” he said. Turning toward Varys, he said, “And you, Master of Whispers, see what whispers you can hear in Flea Bottom and wherever else you have ears. Someone knows our killer. And either the blade or the dead man may lead us to the man who ordered this attack.”

 _Or woman,_ Ned thought grimly, recalling Lysa Arryn’s letter to his wife. _You may find this trail leading straight back to your own queen, Robert._

Selmy bowed to the king. “Ser Mandon waits outside the door of the council chamber,” he said. “With your permission, I will ask him to remain with Your Grace while I see to this. He will stay by you until my return.”

Robert nodded, and Ser Barristan held out his hand to Ned for the dagger. His eyes met Ned’s, and Ned could see a determination to succeed in his task. This man, alone among all of them in the room, inspired some level of trust in him, and he nodded his gratitude as he handed him the blade.

“I don’t know what else can be accomplished here, and I’m starving,” said Robert as the old knight walked toward the doorway. “Ned? You can’t have eaten anything this morning. Come with me, and I’ll see that you’re fed properly.”

Ned had remained on his feet, and he turned to face his friend and king. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said, “But I must return to the Tower of the Hand. I need to see how my wife and son are faring, and I have scarcely spoken to my daughters and youngest son.”

“They’re safe enough now,” Robert protested. “I’ve no doubt you have them entirely surrounded by your most forbidding Northmen. Come and eat, man. Catelyn and your boy will likely both sleep the day away from milk of the poppy.”

Ned’s head was pounding. A part of him knew that Robert meant the invitation as a kindness, but how could the man not realize that his place was with his family? “Bran, perhaps,” he said softly, grimacing at the memory of the agonizing scream that had come from his little boy’s throat when he had forced his hip bone back into its place. Pycelle had said it would become more difficult to put back the longer they waited, but the Grand Maester was too old and frail to do it, so Ned had attended carefully to the man’s instructions and done it himself. He never wanted to do such a thing to any of his children again. Shaking his head to pull himself back out of that terrible moment, he looked at Robert. “Bran was well dosed, but Catelyn refused the poppy.”

Robert looked stunned. “Were her wounds not severe enough to require sewing?” he asked.

“Her wounds required more thread than many I’ve seen on battlefields,” Ned said bitterly. “But she said she must keep her wits about her as long as someone sought to harm her children.”

Robert’s face actually paled a bit as he contemplated undergoing such a procedure with no poppy, but he said nothing else. Neither did the other three men in the room, although Ned felt their eyes on him as he stood there.

“May I leave you now, Your Grace?” he said after a moment. 

Robert looked at him with something like genuine sympathy and nodded.

Without waiting for any other response, Ned bowed and then turned toward the door. Before he reached it, Robert called out.

“Tell her we’ll find the bastard, Ned! And when we do, I promise you and your lady wife, that I’ll see him dead.”

Ned paused in his stride and nodded once without turning around. _Will you, Robert?_ he wondered. _If this leads back to your own wife or her family, will you see them dead?_ As he then walked briskly out of the council chamber and then on out into the courtyard, he prayed that his friend would keep his word. _I hope you can still be the man I once knew, Robert. For if you are not, I fear for all of us._

He had nearly reached the Tower of the Hand when he heard his name being called. Turning to look behind him, he gritted his teeth as he saw Lord Baelish hurrying toward him. He had no time for the man’s games now, but he stopped where he stood and waited for Littlefinger to catch up to him.

“What do you want, Lord Baelish?” he said shortly when the damned man stood beside him.

“Why, the pleasure of the your company, my dear Lord Hand,” he man replied with a smirk, causing Ned to grit his teeth.

“If you have something to say to me, say it plainly,” he growled. “I have no time to play word games with you now.”

Littlefinger’s smirk disappeared and an expression that could almost be interpreted as genuine concern replaced it. “Cat is truly all right?” he asked.

“She’s alive,” Ned said shortly. “She will recover. What permanent damage has been done to her hands, I cannot yet say, but she will bear the scars for life.”

Littlefinger frowned. “Such beauty should not be marred by marks of violence,” he said.

Ned scowled more deeply. “I shall tell her of your concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should . . .”

“I need to speak with you, my lord,” Littlefinger interrupted. He looked around. “Not here, though. Might we avail ourselves of your solar?”

Ned sighed. “I need to see to my wife and son.”

“You need to hear what I have to say,” Littlefinger countered.

Ned felt his temper flare. “Only yesterday, you warned me to be careful of my family. That sounded very like a threat, my lord. And now my wife and son have been attacked in my very own living quarters. An odd coincidence, don’t you think? Would you care to explain it, Lord Baelish?”

“I have no knowledge of what occurred here last night, Lord Stark. I assure you of that.”

“I’m afraid your assurances mean very little to me. Why warn me of danger if unless you had knowledge of specific threats? And then why would you not speak plainly of those threats unless you are a party to them? No, Littlefinger,” Ned spoke the nickname as derisively as Brandon ever had, “I do not trust your assurances.”

To his surprise, rather than become angry, the small man only smiled once more. “Well, mayhap, you are not entirely hopeless after all, Lord Stark. I certainly hope you aren’t, for Cat’s sake. You have no reason to trust me at all, of course. I wouldn’t trust me if I were you.” He tilted his head slightly to the side and raised one brow. “Still, my lord, you need to hear what I have to say.”

Ned sighed. It appeared he could not rid himself of the infuriating man. “Come with me to my solar then. But then say whatever it is quickly.”

“Oh, believe me, my lord,” said Littlefinger, as they began walking the short distance that remained to the entrance of the Tower of the Hand, “I have no more desire to prolong our time together than you do.”

Ned nodded to the men standing guard at the entrance of the tower, and he and Littlefinger walked the remaining distance to his solar without speaking again. Once he had closed the door of the solar behind them, he walked immediately to the desk and sat down, indicating that Baelish should do the same. “Now, Lord Baelish, please tell me whatever you have to say that I might be finished here and attend to my wife.”

“It would have been better had you tossed that knife into the river before ever letting anyone know of last night’s attack,” the man said flatly, and Ned stared at him incredulously.

“That knife is the only thing I have that might lead me to the person behind this attack! Surely, someone will recognize the blade,” Ned told him.

“You need not question anyone for that,” Baelish said, almost without inflection. “I can identify that blade.”

“You can?” Ned rose halfway out of his chair. “You said nothing in the council meeting!”

“I can. And of course, I said nothing in the council meeting. The dagger is mine.”

Ned was on his feet with blood pounding in his ears at the man’s words. He barely heard the next words Baelish spoke. “Or it was. I lost it in a tournament wager. Please sit down, Lord Stark. I have no wish to be thrown against any more walls by you.”

Dimly, Ned’s brain processed what the man was saying, and he sank slowly back into his seat. “Lost. In a wager,” he repeated when he found breath enough to speak. “To whom?”

“Tyrion Lannister,” Baelish replied without hesitation. “I put my faith in his Kingslaying brother, and I had to forfeit the knife when young Loras Tyrell unseated Ser Jaime.”

Ned’s mind whirled. “The Imp?” he asked in some disbelief. “He isn’t even in King’s Landing. He accompanied my brother Benjen to the Wall on some sort of sightseeing trip rather than returning here with us.”

“He was in Winterfell, though, was he not?” Littlefinger asked quietly.

“He was,” Ned acknowledged, “But what has that . . .”

Baelish interrupted him with a loud sigh. “My lord, if you wish to lend credence to the Spider’s tales of hidden passages and secret entrances, you may do so. I, however, prefer to deal in reasonable suppositions. No one saw Cat’s attacker enter this place, and all the guards are Winterfell men. Would it not be more reasonable to suppose that Lannister bought one of those men before you ever departed Winterfell? I confess I cannot fathom why Lannister would wish harm upon your child, but the knife is his.”

Ned remained silent rather than protesting Littlefinger’s repeated insults to the honor of his men. While he still found it hard to believe any of his men capable of a betrayal of such magnitude, he couldn’t ignore the possibility entirely. Not with Catelyn’s and the children’s very lives at stake. As for Tyrion Lannister’s motivation for attacking Bran, he had no more insight than Baelish. But if Lysa Arryn was to be believed, House Lannister had already committed one murder. Mayhap the Imp was in league with the queen, and Bran had heard or seen something he should not have during the royal visit to Winterfell.

“You are very quiet, my lord,” Littlefinger said after a moment. “I hope you are thinking carefully on my words.”

“Robert must hear this,” Ned said.

Littlefinger sighed again. “Apparently, you are not thinking at all. Your friend Robert is the last person who needs to hear of this. Not without more evidence than a knife the Imp can easily claim was stolen long ago. I fear you do not understand the situation here, my lord. The Lannisters hold more power than anyone in King’s Landing other than the king himself. And I’m not so certain that even he can defy them at will.”

“And what would you have me do then, my lord?” Ned said angrily. “I cannot simply let it go.”

“Why not?” Baelish asked. “Do Catelyn and your children mean so little to you? See to their safety first. Send them home, Lord Stark. Send your wife and son back to Winterfell. Surely, no one could fault them for wishing to leave King’s Landing after such a terrible thing has occurred. Send them all back . . .or at least all but your older girl. She might have to remain as she is to wed Joffrey some day.”

Having his family even out of his sight both pained and frightened him at present. Yet Ned wished for nothing more devoutly than their safety and could not ignore that Littlefinger’s words had merit. “That is a thought,” he said quietly. “But how can I know they would be safe on the road? Or even on a ship? You have called into question the trustworthiness of even my own men. To whom do I entrust my wife and children while I must remain here?”

Littlefinger smiled, and it occurred to Ned that the man’s smiles never quite reached his eyes. “If my presence were not required in King’s Landing as well, I would offer to escort them myself, but I could recommend some men . . .”

“No,” Ned said more harshly than he intended. “If they are to go, it will be Northmen who take them.” His eyes darkened. “But Bran’s leg was damaged again when he ran to find me. He cannot be moved for some time.” He frowned deeply. “I agree that we should have more solid evidence before we bring this to Robert, but I will not let it go entirely. I intend to find the truth of this.”

“You are a stubborn man, Lord Stark,” Baelish observed. “I fear it may bring you to harm. But if you insist upon pursuing this, I will offer you my assistance. For Cat’s sake. I cannot imagine why she is so fond of you, but I have never been able to deny your wife anything.”

“My wife is none of your concern,” Ned said said brusquely, wanting to be done with this alarming conversation and with his wife right now.

“I can make some discreet inquiries,” Baelish offered. “In fact . . .” he hesitated as if unsure whether or not to say more. “It happens that your wife already . . .confided in me . . .and asked my assistance about another matter.”

Ned watched the man’s face and took note of the anticipation in his eyes. He wanted to see shock and displeasure on Ned’s face at this information. Of course, Ned knew precisely to what he referred so he took care to keep his face expressionless in spite of his intense desire to run the man through with any available blade. He would play along with Catelyn’s game. “What matter is that?”

“She seemed frightened by Lord Arryn’s death,” Littlefinger said in a rather off-handed manner. “Likely, she is even more frightened now. She seemed to think it may have been unnatural in cause. I doubt there is anything to her fears--the man wasn’t young--but, I promised her I would make some inquiries.”

“You seem very eager to make inquiries about matters which do not concern you,” Ned observed. “Why so helpful, my lord?”

Baelish shrugged. “I told you. For Cat. On the off chance that I do discover anything of interest concerning Lord Arryn, would you like me to bring it to you? I have no wish to betray your lady’s confidence, but you are her husband. And I have even less wish to alarm her after what has occurred here.”

The man was going out of his way to provoke some sort of reaction from him. Ned had no doubt that among all the other deadly games being played out here in the Red Keep, Petyr Baelish played a game of his own. He only wished he knew what it was. Still, he certainly could use whatever assistance the man might provide. “Aye,” he said after a moment. “Anything you learn about the attack on Bran and Catelyn here or about Lord Arryn’s death, bring directly to me. And only to me.”

Baelish nodded with another little smile. “As you wish, my lord. And in the mean time, we shall both have to hope that Ser Barristan does not show that knife to anyone with a good memory and loose lips, or I fear that the Lannisters will surely take some action to protect themselves. You really cannot trust anyone here, Lord Stark. I do hope you remember that.”

 _I certainly cannot trust you,_ Ned thought. “I thank you for your assistance, Lord Baelish,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must see my family. I’ll have my man see you out of the Tower,” he added quickly before the man could ask to visit Catelyn himself. Ned wasn’t certain he could remain courteous at all if he had to respond to that request.

Baelish rose from his seat, and with a small bow turned and walked to the door. Ned instructed the guard outside to escort him safely out and then sat for a moment with his face in his hands, cursing the day Robert had ever come north to Winterfell, hating the fact he now had to rely on Littlefinger in even a small part, and wondering how he could safely remove his family from this situation. Unable to think of satisfactory solutions to any of his worries, he rubbed his temples briefly with his fingers and then rose to go to Catelyn’s chambers.

Four of his men stood outside the door to her rooms, and they stood at attention as he approached. He nodded to them, wondering why there were so many for he had requested but one for outside Catelyn’s room and one each for the other three children, but needing to see Catelyn and Bran too badly to stop and ask them questions.

In any event, the question was answered as soon as he opened the door. Catelyn sat upon her bed, pillows piled behind her and bandages wrapped thickly around both hands. Bran lay beside her, still and unmoving, obviously still sleeping from the poppy he’d been given. In a chair pulled up close to Bran sat Arya, her hand resting lightly on her brother’s arm and her grey eyes looking darkly across the bed at her sister who sat in another chair pulled up to Catelyn’s side of the bed. Sansa held Rickon in her lap, and the youngest Stark leapt out of his sister’s arms and flung himself toward Ned as soon as he saw him there.

“Father!” he shouted, grabbing Ned around the legs. “A bad man hurt Mother! Did you chop off his head?” The little boy’s Tully blue eyes gazed up at him with ferocious intensity, and Ned bent to pick him up.

“The man who hurt your mother is dead, Rickon, although I did not take his head,” he said solemnly. 

“You killed him, though!” Rickon insisted. “I heard the men say you did.”

Ned met Catelyn’s eyes above the child’s head and saw her nod almost imperceptibly. Silently, he thanked the gods for whatever had troubled Rickon’s sleep and sent him wandering to his oldest sister’s room the previous night or he would have been there when the killer came. And there would have been nothing to prevent the villain from cutting his sweet son’s throat as he lay in bed for no other reason than to keep him silent.

“What did your mother tell you, Rickon?” he asked the boy now, fighting the urge to grip him more tightly as he contemplated what could have happened.

“She said you saved her from the bad man, and if I had any more questions, I could ask you. You did kill him, though, right? Like the men are saying.”

Ned sighed. “Aye, Rickon,” he answered. “I killed him to save your mother. And had I not needed to kill him then, I would take his head now. A man who would lay violent hands on the Lady of Winterfell deserves death.”

Rickon nodded his agreement with that, and the savage look gradually went out of his eyes. Ned could then see more clearly the fear that had been beneath his fierceness all along then. “No one else will hurt Mother?” the little boy asked softly. “Or me or Bran or the girls?”

“No one will hurt you, Rickon. Not any of you. I will not allow it,” Ned said firmly.

Arya muttered something under her breath, and Catelyn reprimanded her sharply. “Arya! I will not have you speak like that.”

Ned looked at his younger daughter whose grey eyes were now far angrier than they had been when he’d entered the room. “What did you say, Arya?”

She only stared at him sullenly, and Catelyn spoke again. “I would not have her repeat it now, Ned.” She looked meaningfully at Rickon, and Ned wondered what on earth the girl had said. Sighing, he decided to let it go for the present, certain that Catelyn would tell him later. 

He put Rickon down and walked to the bed, stepping around Sansa’s chair to touch his wife’s shoulder gently. “How do you feel, my love?” he asked her.

She gave him a sideways sort of smile. “Aside from my hands? I am quite well. Yet, Grand Maester Pycelle decreed I was not to leave this bed.”

“I’m to see that she stays here,” Sansa said. “The Grand Maester bid me sit right here as soon as I came in.”

“Where is Pycelle?” Ned asked.

“He left a short while ago,” Catelyn replied. “He and the young man who sewed up my hands.”

Ned shuddered as he recalled the horrible, interminable amount of time that had taken. As she’d refused the poppy, and no argument of his could sway her, he’d held her tightly to him so that she couldn’t move and Jory Cassel had held her hand flat as the young man sewed--first one and then the other. She’d cried out a few times, but she hadn’t truly fought either of them. After it had been finished to the Grand Maester’s satisfaction (he’d claimed his old hands lacked the needed dexterity for the sewing job just as his old arms had lacked the strength to move Bran’s bone, but he had stood over the younger man, supervising and instructing), she had gone rather limp in Ned’s arms, but assured him it had been less painful than childbirth. Having held her through that as well, he did not doubt her words, but this pain was one she should never have suffered. And he would see that whoever had caused it suffered more.

“I am fine, Ned,” she said softly, obviously noting his expression. “I will heal.” She looked down at their sleeping son beside her. “It is Bran I fear for,” she said. “The Grand Maester says we must be very careful of his leg for a long time now. And still, he might be left with some lameness in it.” Her blue eyes watered. “I wish we had never brought him here.”

“I can send you home,” Ned said, almost in a whisper, recalling Littlefinger’s advice. “As soon as Bran can be moved, I can send you all home.”

“Would you, Father?” Arya asked eagerly, and at almost the precise time, Sansa exclaimed, “No!” in a voice which sounded rather panicked. Rickon only looked at everyone in the room as if he wasn’t certain what was going on and held tightly to Ned’s leg.

“You’re so stupid, Sansa!” Arya said angrily. “He probably didn’t even write that message. He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anyone but himself!”

“No, Arya!” Sansa retorted angrily. “That’s you! You don’t care about anybody but yourself.”

“Girls!” Catelyn hissed. “Stop it this instant.”

“Mother and Bran could have died!” Arya stood up to nearly shout. “And all you care about is your stupid Joffrey!”

“You will both be silent,” Ned commanded, and both girls immediately turned to look up at him, Sansa closing her lips over the reply she’d been about to give her sister. Rickon let go his leg and shrank back against Sansa, staring up at him fearfully. He’d used the icy voice that never failed to compel obedience from his children, although he rarely used it. He hated using it now because he had no wish to frighten them more than they already were, but this fighting between the two girls would not do.

“Arya,” he said more quietly. “You have no cause to attack your sister. I will not have it.” He turned toward his elder daughter. “As for you, Sansa, I understand the reasons you would stay in King’s Landing. We are all here for the present, I fear . . .” He looked down at Bran. The boy had not moved through the altercation, and he wondered precisely how much poppy the old Grand Maester had given him. That sent a stab of fear through him, as he could not really trust Pycelle any more than anyone else here. 

“Vayon was here when every dose was administered,” Catelyn said softly. “He knows milk of the poppy well, my love.”

Ned swallowed, not even bothering to marvel at his wife’s uncanny ability to read his thoughts, but only being grateful that she could so quickly allay this one fear, at least.

Turning back to Sansa, he said, “If I should decide that any of you must be sent back to Winterfell at some point, you will abide by my decision. I will do only what is necessary to keep all of us safe.”

“Prince Joffrey would not allow anyone to harm me, Father,” Sansa said. “I know he wouldn’t.”

Arya coughed, and Ned glared at her, silencing her.

“The prince would want you safe, of course,” Ned said to Sansa. “And if it becomes clear that Winterfell is the safest place for you, he should want you there. In the mean time, I would have you all be very careful. You are to go nowhere, even within the Tower, without one of our men beside you. And it should be a man you know. I will see to it that Jory assigns guards that each of you can trust.”

“Do you not trust all your men, Father?” Arya asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Of course, I do,” he said rather more sharply than he intended. “But I know my children, especially you, Arya. You will like having a shadow little enough, and I would at least make your shadow someone you personally know well enough to feel comfortable with. I would do that for all of you.”

Arya nodded. “I want to go back to my room now. Erryk came here with me. I like him well enough. Can he take me back to my room?” 

“You don’t want to stay here, sweetling?” Catelyn asked her, and Ned knew his wife liked having all the children within arms reach at the moment.

Arya looked at her sister and shook her head.

Ned sighed. “Very well. Call Erryk in.” When Arya opened the door to admit the Winterfell man who’d been assigned to guard her in the aftermath of last night’s events, Ned admonished him that he was to take the Lady Arya only to her room and nowhere else. Nor was he to leave her alone. Remembering Varys’s talk of secret passages, he called for one of the other men to go with them as well. Erryk was to stay inside Arya’s room and the other man to stand guard outside her door. Arya looked as if she very much wanted to protest this, but she remained silent.

When they had left, Ned walked around the bed and sat wearily in the chair his daughter had vacated. He laid a hand gently on Bran’s arm, and it felt comfortably solid and warm beneath his touch. 

“He won’t wake for at least another hour, Ned,” Catelyn said. “He was moaning and starting to thrash about again just before Pycelle left, and he said we must keep him perfectly still, so he got more poppy then.”

Ned nodded. “And what of you, my love?” he asked her. “Will you take nothing for your own pain?”

“It isn’t so bad,” she lied. She was a terrible liar, and he frowned at her. She laughed a little at that. “It hurts, Ned. I’ll not deny it, but if I keep my mind occupied, I can stand it.”

He looked at her carefully. He could use her mind now. He had much to speak with her about. “Can you walk, my lady?” he asked her suddenly.

Her blue eyes widened. He was never one to encourage her to go against a maester’s advice concerning herself. “My legs are uninjured, my lord,” she said calmly.

“Mother! Grand Maester Pycelle said you are weak from the blood loss! You are not to get out of bed!” Sansa protested.

Ned frowned. No doubt Cat was weaker than she’d ever admit. But he did not want to have this conversation in front of his children, and he did not wish to send them away. It was bad enough that Arya had gone. He would keep the others all together if he could.

“I need to speak to your mother, Sansa,” he said gently. “I will not take her far, and I assure you I am perfectly capable of carrying her if the need arises.” He smiled at his daughter. “And I promise to do so even if she objects to it.”

“Ned!” Catelyn protested, but Sansa smiled, which had been Ned’s intent.

“Will you sit here with your brothers until our return?” he asked her.

“Yes, Father,” Sansa said.

“I shall have one of the guards come in from the corridor and the other remain without,” Ned told her. “Rickon, you will mind your sister.”

The little boy nodded, not having spoken since Ned had used his ‘lord’s voice’ on the girls.

“My lady?” He stood and came back around the bed to assist Catelyn in rising. She was more steady on her feet than he had hoped, although she leaned against him. As she could not grip his arm with either of her hands, he held tightly to hers.

Rickon threw himself at his mother almost as soon as she was standing, and Catelyn put her arm around him, laughing. “Don’t fuss at him, Ned,” she said, bending to press kisses to the copper curls. “He was reprimanded very severely by Grand Maester Pycelle for jumping up on my bed when he first came into the room because Bran should not be jostled. Poor boy’s been afraid to touch me since.”

Ned simply nodded and allowed his wife and son a long moment to simply hold onto each other while he supported her there. When Rickon finally spoke again, he had tears in his eyes. “I’m glad you can stand up, Mother,” he said.

Ned realized then that the sight of his mother’s bandaged hands, her being confined to the bed, and his being unable to touch her had scared the little boy far more than he’d realized.

“Of course I can stand, and I can chase you if you misbehave,” she assured him with a smile. “And once I can take off these silly bandages, I can tickle you when I catch you, so do mind your sister, sweetling.”

Rickon grinned. It was the first real smile Ned had seen from him since entering the room, and it somehow made him feel both more hopeful and more determined to keep them all safe.

Leaving the three children safely guarded in Catelyn’s room, Ned and Catelyn slowly made their way down the corridor toward his own virtually unused bedchamber. As soon as he closed the door behind them, she stopped walking and turned to face him.

“I’m not leaving King’s Landing, Ned.”

“I promise I won’t have you go without Bran, Cat, and I cannot know when . . .”

“I’m not leaving you here.” The words were spoken flatly, but the blue eyes held a challenge as the met his.

“Cat . . .you know that I must remain and . . .”

“Of course, I know that,” she snapped. “And I shall remain with you.” She sighed. “If we can find a way to safely send the children back to Winterfell, I would welcome it.” She bit her lip. “Although I fear that will be difficult to accomplish without causing offense . . .”

“Offense?” Ned asked, stunned. “Catelyn, you were brutally attacked in our sons’ bedchamber! I dare anyone to take offense at anything I do now when it comes to your safety or the children’s.”

“Ned,” she said, and his name sounded like tired sigh. “Let’s sit down before I fall down, and you truly do have to carry me back.”

Immediately feeling guilty for keeping her standing here, Ned scooped one arm under her hips and carried her to his bed.

She actually laughed as he laid her gently upon her back and then bent over her to move the pillows beneath her back to prop her up. As his face passed within a few inches of hers, she raised her head to kiss him briefly. “While I admit to being tempted, my lord,” she teased him, “I fear I’m not quite up to it at the moment. She wiggled herself into a slightly more upright position, struggling to do so without the use of her hands. “It is a pity, for I will say you were quite correct when you said your room had a more comfortable bed than mine.” She smiled up at him.

He returned her smile and sat on the bed beside her. “You are a temptress, Lady Stark, and if you continue to look at me like that, I fear I may forget all about your injuries and our present troubles. So, please stop.” He almost reached out to take her hand before recalling that even touching her hands would cause her pain. That thought caused the brief moment of levity to flee. “I do want you and the children out of here, Cat. Even Littlefinger said . . .”

“Littlefinger?” she exclaimed in surprise. “You are now taking counsel from Petyr?”

“Gods, no!” Ned exclaimed, shaking his head. “I trust the man not at all. But we did have a very interesting conversation. That’s why I brought you here. To share with you the discussions of this morning’s session with the small council and Lord Baelish’s surprising information.”

She became quite serious then, and with only occasional interruptions and questions on her part, Ned relayed to her all the events of his morning.

“Tyrion Lannister . . .” she said thoughtfully. “I scarcely spoke with the man when he was at Winterfell.”

“He was more often in the brothels outside the castle than spending time within it,” Ned said scornfully. “Although he did spend a good bit of time in the library. He’s a well read man, I’ll give him that.”

“He was terribly rude at times, but I never sensed the malice from him that I felt from the queen.” She shook her head. “I’d have sworn Cersei Lannister actually hated her dwarf brother during the few times I did see them together. But this would make it seem they are in league somehow.”

“I can’t make sense of it,” Ned told her. “But if Bran’s fall was not an accident . . .”

“It wasn’t,” Catelyn said firmly. “I just know it wasn’t, Ned.”

Ned nodded. “I hope we can convince the boy to speak of it once he wakes. But I suppose it is possible that he saw or heard something concerning Lord Arryn’s murder and was discovered by one or more of the Lannisters.”

“He’s a child, Ned! How much of such talk would he even understand?”

Ned shook his head. “I don’t know that it even matters. If the queen or any of the Lannisters are truly responsible for Jon’s death, and if they suspect that Bran might bring that to light . . .I cannot say what lengths they would go to in order to silence him.”

“They will know now that you will go to any lengths to discover who is behind the attack on me here,” she said softly.

“What?” he asked absently, his mind still pondering the mystery of two separate attacks aimed at his son.

“I can well imagine how you were in that council meeting, my love. If the Lannisters are willing to murder a child over some little something he might have seen or heard--something that could likely be explained away as a child’s fantasy--how long do you think they will rest before taking action against a man bent on bringing them to justice--a man who has the ear of the king?” She looked at him steadily, and Ned could see the fear in her eyes. _It is not fear for herself, but for me,_ he realized. 

“Catelyn, I will go carefully in this. I can take care of myself.”

“Can you?”

He started to protest, and she held up her bandaged hands to silence him. “I do not doubt you in the least, my love. It is only that this is a difficult undertaking as well as a dangerous one, and I would not have you left entirely alone. I can help you. You know I can.”

He leaned forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. “I know that well, my lady. But I desire your safety more than I desire your assistance.”

“I know,” she said thoughtfully. “Petyr would know that, too. Why is he so anxious to get me out of King’s Landing?”

“Because he cares for you?” Ned asked, hating to even consider the man’s feelings for his wife.

“Mayhap,” she said. “But even as a child, Petyr rarely did anything for completely selfless motives. Oh, he was frequently kind. But his kindness to others tended to benefit him as well.” She bit her lip. “His affection for me was genuine. I do believe that. And I don’t believe he would ever wish harm upon me, Ned. But why tell you that I asked about Jon Arryn? He doesn’t like you. I certainly believe him when he says that.”

“He didn’t tell me as a kindness, Cat. He wanted to see my reaction. He wanted me to know that my wife trusted him with something that she did not trust to me.”

She nodded. “I can see him doing that simply to be cruel to you. But then, to go out of his way to help you as well . . .” She put her head in her hands and then jerked those hands away as the pressure of the contact obviously pained her palms. “Damn these cuts! I keep forgetting not to touch things.”

He did reach out and take her hands then, resting the backs of her hands in his palms. “Let me take you back to our children, my love,” he said softly. “I don’t know that thinking more upon the motives of Petyr Baelish is likely to do more than drive us both mad at the moment. We shall simply have to wait and see what he chooses to report to each of us.”

“And we must be careful to keep him believing that we do not share everything we know with each other.”

He smiled at her. “You are a help, Cat. Until Bran is well enough to travel, I shall accept all the assistance you can offer me. Beyond that . . .”

“Beyond that, we needn’t worry at the moment,” she said firmly. “Oh. Before we go back, I should tell you what prompted the girls’ argument.”

“It all goes back to the wolves and the butcher’s boy, of course,” he said sadly.

“Well, yes . . .but it was the messenger that had Arya so angry. A note came for Sansa expressing sorrow and concern over the attack last night.”

“From Joffrey?” Ned asked doubtfully.

“Ostensibly,” Catelyn said. “I believe his mother put him up to it. Why not allay suspicion immediately by having her golden son play the concerned future husband?”

“Why would that upset Arya so much? I realize she hates Joffrey, but . . .”

“The message was delivered by Sandor Clegane.”

“Oh,” Ned said grimly. “I’ll speak to Robert. I don’t want that man anywhere near my children. What he did to that poor boy . . .”

“He’s a monster,” Catelyn agreed. “But he is also in the service of the crown prince. Arya must learn to control her temper. Gods help us all if she can’t.”

“I’ll have a talk with her,” Ned promised. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay here,” he said.

She shook her head. “Bran cannot be moved, and I’ll not leave him overnight, Ned.”

“I’ll have a cot brought to your room then,” he said, and she raised her brow.

“That bed of yours will not accommodate the three of us, my love, and I have no intention of leaving you alone overnight, either. I’ll sleep in your room, if not in your bed, and I will be armed.”

Ned spent almost the rest of the day in his solar attending to any number of items that had been brought to him as Hand of the King. The business of running a kingdom did not stop even if his wife had been attacked. He did go back to Catelyn’s room to eat both his midday and evening meals. They gathered all the children there, including Arya, and ate simple fare in relative silence. Only Rickon seemed inclined to chatter, and when his talk turned to his imaginings of what he believed Shaggydog to be doing in a forest near a big river, Sansa went almost deathly quiet. Ned knew she thought of her own wolf whom she believed dead. 

Catelyn looked at him once with a question in her eyes, but he shook his head. As much as he would like to comfort his daughter with the fact that her wolf survived, now was not the time for sharing any unnecessary secrets. The less his children knew, the safer he could keep them.

He finally lay down that night on a hard cot near Catelyn’s bed, both Ice and a dagger within easy reach. Rickon slept in Sansa’s bed, he knew. Only Arya was alone, and that was by her choice. Ned would have it otherwise if he could. All of their chambers had guards inside and out. Even this one. Ned felt he was perfectly capable of protecting his wife and son, but Catelyn had demanded an inside guard anyway, stating she wanted him to sleep because he had to be exhausted after the previous night. 

He was exhausted, but he didn’t think he’d sleep. Catelyn didn’t sleep either for a long time. He could tell she remained awake even though she was still and silent in the darkness. After a long while, her quiet, regular breathing told him that she had finally fallen asleep and the thanked the gods for it. Then he touched the dagger at his side as if it were a talisman and lay there staring into the dark, waiting for morning.


	4. Husband, Father, Hand of the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two major conversations in this chapter (one taking place in the Small Hall and a longer one taking place between Ned and Arya) are taken almost directly from Arya's second chapter in A Game of Thrones. As such, the words of the actual dialogue in these two segments is quoted EXACTLY from that chapter and was written by George R. R. Martin. I have only changed the POV so that Ned's thoughts are now expressed rather than Arya's, and I have added very tiny bits to the dialogue in a few instances to make it specific to this particular alternate universe. But the words the characters speak in those sections are, by and large, quotes from the book, and I wish to acknowledge that just as I acknowledge that these characters and the story I'm playing around with all belong to George R. R. Martin in the first place. :)

Over the next two days, Ned was pleased to see that both Catelyn and Bran improved. Catelyn moved easily enough about her chambers, although she still tired easily and could use her hands for very little without suffering pain. As she began to chafe more and more at being confined to her rooms, Ned knew she was getting better indeed. Bran had been allowed to gradually wake more and more although his leg still pained him terribly with the slightest movement, and he remained confined to the bed. His account of what occurred on the night of the attack matched Catelyn’s completely, and he had no new details to add. He’d become agitated when Ned had tried to ask him once again about his fall, stubbornly insisting that he only remembered climbing and waking up in his bed. Frustrated by the lack of information, but more concerned about his son’s recovery, Ned had stopped asking.

Beyond the improvements in his wife’s and son’s health, nothing had occurred to please Ned Stark at all. He spent long days arguing with the members of the small council who seemed determined to expend endless energy on debating matters of no import at all rather than to make actual attempts at addressing significant issues. The damned tournament was to proceed as scheduled in spite of his protests that allowing great throngs of people into the Red Keep when the identity of Bran’s and Catelyn’s attacker remained a mystery was foolish and dangerous. Robert merely declared that the tournament would show whoever was behind the attack that no one was afraid of them and that it would lift morale.

Nothing more had been learned of the attack. Ser Barristan reported that he had not found anyone who recognized the dagger, although when Ned asked Jory Cassel if it had been shown to any of his own household guard, he was told it hadn’t been. That struck Ned as odd considering that, while he trusted his men, anyone looking at the attacks from the outside must consider that complicity of one of the Winterfell men would most easily explain the ability of the assassin to enter the Tower of the Hand. Ned wondered if the old knight’s sense of honor precluded him from questioning the Northmen after Ned himself had so vehemently insisted upon their innocence. If so, he’d prefer that Ser Barristan worry less about giving offense and concentrate more upon investigating thoroughly. He’d have to remember to say something to the man about it.

Lord Varys had learned nothing from his informants, either, and when he had shown Jory and several other men Ned had selected for the duty the entrances to two secret passageways in Maegor’s Holdfast and then come into the Tower of the Hand today to assist those men in searching for similar hidden entrances in rooms there, the search had turned up nothing.

Petyr Baelish had spoken almost nothing to him outside of small council meetings, and while Ned did not miss the man’s company, he had hoped he might prove useful at finding out more about who had access to Tyrion Lannister’s dagger. The damned man had sent messages of concern and best wishes for recovery to Catelyn yesterday and today. He’d asked about visiting her as well, but Ned had told him truthfully enough that she was seeing no visitors yet. Of course, that was by his decree rather than her choice, and while his intent was to keep his wife safe and allow her to rest rather than to specifically keep Littlefinger away from her, Ned couldn’t deny taking a certain amount of satisfaction in keeping the vile little man out of her presence. 

Cersei Lannister had also sent messages expressing both shock and dismay about the attack and her great desire to come and comfort Catelyn in her convalescence. Catelyn had laughed out loud at these messages, but also had warned Ned it would be foolishly discourteous to prevent the queen entry to the Tower of the Hand for much longer.

“We cannot appear to be frightened of the Lannisters, Ned,” she’d said to him. “I’d give them no reason at all to believe we suspect them until we have enough proof to do something about it.”

He’d nodded and put her off for another day in the matter of personal visitors, but he had acquiesced on another matter. He and the children had been taking all their meals in the Tower of the Hand since the attack, and Catelyn told him it would look much better if they dined in the small hall with the men at least sometimes. Having all the Starks more or less secreted away in the Tower would cause more talk and speculation. Grudgingly, he’d acknowledged her wisdom in this and decreed that the entire household, save Bran and herself, and sufficient guards would take their evening meal in the small hall today.

Sansa and Rickon had both expressed glee at this, Sansa because it meant a reason to dress well and attend what she considered a “real” dinner and Rickon simply because he was tired of being cooped up. Arya had simply shrugged as if she cared little where she ate her meal. She and and Sansa were still barely speaking to each other. He’d managed to convince them to refrain from open hostility at least in Catelyn’s presence, but he feared their relationship had actually worsened rather than improved in the wake of the attack. Septa Mordane’s constant reports of bickering between the two and of Arya’s disrespectful behavior had begun to grate on his nerves as greatly as the small council meetings did, but he refused to let her bother Catelyn with any of it. 

The damned council meeting had gone far too long again, of course, and so he found himself late to the meal with no time to go and see Catelyn beforehand. He hadn’t seen her since well before midday and that bothered him. Since she and Bran still shared her room and Bran was normally awake now, he felt he hadn’t been able to speak freely with her at all except during brief walks taken to his own chambers. He missed being able to speak with her and hear her thoughts as they lay in bed at night. Truthfully, he wanted to avoid burdening her with his cares while she recovered, but he missed her. He wondered how he had ever contemplated coming to this place and dealing with these people on his own when mere days without her as his confidante and counselor caused him to feel so alone.

_I know no more about who killed Jon Arryn or pushed Bran than I did before I left Winterfell, he thought darkly. And I’m no closer to finding out who sent that killer to Bran’s room than when I plunged the knife into his throat. And now I’m late to dine with my own household for the sake of an argument over the size of the prizes for the joust and melee in a godsforsaken tournament that should never take place._

Rickon saw him first when he strode into the Small Hall and cried out, “Father!” in an excited voice. Jory immediately rose to his feet with a respectful, “My lord,” and the rest of the guard rose with him. Ned took note of their new cloaks—heavy grey wool with a white satin border and a hand of beaten silver clutching the woolen folds. He wondered what the expense for those had been, knowing they must have been ordered well before his arrival here to be ready so soon. He sighed and thought he’d rather money be spent on his men than on tournaments at least. These were good men, and they deserved uniforms befitting their position as the Hand’s household guard.

“Be seated,” he said as he reached his own seat. “I see you have started without me. I am pleased to know there are still some men of sense in this city.”

At his signal, the servers began bringing out platters of ribs, roasted in a crust of garlic and herbs.

“You missed the soup, Father,” Rickon said from his seat beside him. Wrinkling his nose, he added, “But it was pumpkin.”

Ned smiled for what felt like the first time in hours as he reached over to pat his son’s head. Rickon had never been a fan of pumpkin, and Ned had once confessed conspiratorially to the little boy that it wasn’t his favorite either. Catelyn, who’d been trying to get the boy to eat it at the time, had rolled her eyes at him, but Rickon’s face had split into a wide grin, and since then he’d taken to proclaiming loudly whenever anything with pumpkin was served, “My lord father and I don’t like pumpkin!” 

His own smile disappeared, however, when Jory Cassel asked something about the damnable tournament, his enthusiasm obvious.

In spite of his own unenthusiastic reply, Sansa’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “A tourney,” she said in a breathy voice which sounded almost reverent. “Will we be permitted to go, Father?”

Ned frowned at her where she sat between Jeyne Poole and Septa Mordane. All of the children had heard his opinion on this ridiculous display, and now that he knew without doubt that someone in King’s Landing had attempted to murder at least one member of his family, the idea of allowing his children to mingle amidst a throng of people was ludicrous. “You know my feelings, Sansa. It seems I must arrange Robert’s games and pretend to be honored for his sake. That does not mean I must subject my children to this folly.”

“Oh, please,” Sansa begged. “I want to see.”

Ned felt the headache which had plagued him all day worsen as she spoke. “After this attack on your . . .” he started to say, but Septa Mordane interrupted him.

“Princess Myrcella will be there, my lord, and her younger than Lady Sansa. All the ladies of the court will be expected at a grand event like this, and as the tourney is in your honor, it would look queer if your family did not attend. You have reason to be concerned about their safety, I know, my lord, but if Lady Stark is still too ill to attend by the time the tourney takes place, I will not let Lady Sansa out of my sight, and you can assign her as many guards as you feel necessary.”

Ned looked at Sansa’s hopeful expression and thought she was likely clutching Jeyne’s hand beneath the table. As much as it pained him, he thought Catelyn would likely agree with the septa on this, provided he could make it safe.

“I suppose so. Very well, I shall arrange a place for you, Sansa.” He looked around to see Arya watching him carefully with a bit of a frown on her own face. To his dismay, he noted that his daughters were seated as far from each other as could be managed without being blatantly discourteous. “For both of you,” he said.

“I don’t care about their stupid tourney,” Arya said.

“It will be a splendid event,” Sansa said rather haughtily. “You shan’t be wanted.”

“Enough, Sansa,” Ned said angrily. “More of that and you will change my mind. I am weary unto death of this endless war you two are fighting. You are sisters. I expect you to behave like sisters, is that understood?”

He watched Sansa until she bit her lip and nodded. Then he turned to see Arya staring sullenly at her plate. She rubbed at her eyes, and he knew she was trying not to cry. No one else spoke, and Ned looked down at his own plate finding that the ribs had lost any appeal to him. “Pray excuse me,” he announced to the table. “I find I have small appetite tonight.”

“But, Father,” Rickon said as he rose from his chair.

“Eat your ribs, Rickon,” he said more sternly than he intended.

“Yes, Father,” the boy said meekly, looking back down at his plate.

With a last helpless look at all three of his children, Ned walked from the hall. The air outside was little cooler than in the Small Hall and he tugged at his collar as he walked toward the Tower of the Hand. He had failed his children in there. Catelyn would have handled the girls better. He didn’t know what to do with them. And Rickon. He didn’t truly understand anything that had happened, and Ned had simply left him there with an admonishment to eat his food. At least half of him felt he should turn around and go back into the Small Hall and do something . . . anything . . . for his children. Yet, he felt as utterly exhausted as he ever had been and didn’t know what he could do, so he kept walking to the Tower of the Hand.

He barely nodded in acknowledgement of Fat Tom’s greeting at the door, walking past him and heading straight for Catelyn’s chambers. It was all he could do to keep himself from simply opening the door and walking right in so great was his need to see her, but he forced himself to stop. He nodded once more to the guard posted here and knocked on his wife’s door.

“Come in,” she called, and he pushed open the door.

“Ned!” she said in some surprise, looking up from where she sat beside the bed. “Look, my love! The Grand Maester has allowed Bran to be raised up a bit this evening.”

Ned’s eyes went to the bed where his son, who had been kept flat on his back since the attack, was now propped up very slightly upon pillows with the slightest bit of flexion at his hips. Bran grinned at him. “It’s not like sitting up, but it’s at least a little easier to eat this way. It didn’t even hurt that much to get here!”

Ned wanted to smile at him. He did. He was pleased at even the slightest evidence that his son’s hip was recovering. He prayed fervently that the boy would not be left lame. But the small joy in Bran’s slight improvement was swallowed by grief and rage and guilt and impotence that he had allowed the injury to occur at all. That he’d been unable to protect his son. Or his wife. That he was unable to make Robert do anything in his position as Hand. That he had no answers to the dangerous questions that plagued them. That his children all suffered and he had no succor for them.

“That’s very good, Bran,” he managed to say softly.

“Is the meal in the Small Hall finished already, my lord?”

Ned turned toward Catelyn to see her regarding him carefully, concern registering in her blue eyes. “No, my lady,” he said after a moment. “I fear I had little appetite.”

“Bran,” she said, “I shall return in a bit. I would like to take your father to his room because I fear he has overtired himself. Will you be all right here?”

“Yes, Mother,” Bran answered quickly.

Ned felt he should tell her to stay. That he should stay and tell his son how much his heart lifted simply to see him awake once more, and that to see him smile was finest gift he’d received today. But instead he simply offered his arm to Catelyn as she rose from the chair and walked wordlessly from her room. 

“Sit inside with Bran until I return, please,” Catelyn murmured to the guard as they left, and he responded with a respectful, “Yes, my lady.”

They walked in silence the relatively short distance to his own chambers, but once they had entered and closed the door behind them, she turned to face him.

“Tell me,” she said simply.

He shook his head, wondering how to begin to say what he felt. He took her still bandaged hands in his and stared down at them, thinking he had no right to burden her with his own failings. 

She sensed his hesitation. “I am not fragile, my love. Tell me what troubles you.”

He raised his eyes to her face which looked up at his with concern bordering on alarm, and he released on of her hands to bring his own hand up to touch her cheek. “There are no new trials or dangers, Cat,” he said softly. “I simply find myself woefully inadequate to deal with the trials and dangers we already face.”

She regarded him another moment and then tugged him toward the bed. “Sit with me, Ned. You are more than tired. I know well enough you don’t sleep on that godsforsaken cot.”

“I am tired,” he acknowledged as he sank down to sit beside her on the bed. “But I am more tired of not accomplishing anything. Of failing to protect you and the children. Of failing even to do this impossible job Robert asked me here to do.”

“Robert is a fool,” she said bluntly. “He asks you to do a job and then refuses to allow you to do it. That is hardly your fault, my love. As to answers, Ned we’ve been here barely any time at all. We knew this would not be easy.”

“I did not know you would be brutally attacked!” he said. “I cannot keep all of you here if I cannot keep you safe.”

“We are safe now, Ned. As safe as we can be. None of us is ever without some sort of guard.” She frowned. “Except you.” 

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh? I beg to differ. You look half dead from exhaustion. You must start sleeping. All of our rooms have been thoroughly searched for mysterious passageways and none have been found. However that man got into the Tower, he must have come to Bran’s room through the corridor. We have men outside all our doors at night. You must sleep.”

He shook his head slowly. He wouldn’t come sleep in this room alone. However comfortable the bed, he would lie awake without her there. He wasn’t even certain he wanted to sleep as his dreams during the few hours he did sleep were more troubled than they had been in a long time. He dreamed of Lyanna again. Of that cursed tower in the heat of Dorne. He dreamed of promises and failures from the past and woke to promises and failures of the present.

“I just left them there,” he said.

“What?” she asked, having no way of knowing what he spoke about.

“The children. I just left them there in the Small Hall. Sansa and Arya are at war with each other, and Rickon is simply lost. And I just left them.” 

“What do you mean you left them?”

“I couldn’t stand it anymore, Catelyn,” he said, painfully aware that he sounded almost as if he were shouting at her which is the last thing he wanted to do. “Jory brought up that damned tournament after I’d been kept in the godsforsaken council chamber for hours arguing over the amount of prize money the crown can afford. The crown can afford no prize money at all! It’s insanity! And then Sansa made a plea to attend in front of everyone and that interfering old woman spoke in favor of it and . . .”

“Ned,” Catelyn interrupted him softly, putting her fingertips gently on his lips. “If you truly feel the girls’ lives will be in danger should they attend, then we shall tell them no. And I shall speak to Septa Mordane about questioning you in public. I assume she’s the interfering old woman to whom you refer?”

He reached up to hold her hand and kissed the fingertips before removing it from his lips. “I shouldn’t have spoken of her so,” he said apologetically. “And in truth, she was right in what she said. If Sansa will abide by my rules for her own protection, I can likely make her safe enough—and it would be seen by some as an insult to the crown should no one from my family attend a tournament in my honor, whatever my feelings on the matter.”

“I shall be there,” Catelyn said firmly. “I will keep the girls beside me. I fear Rickon is too young. He’ll grow bored and restless and be a nightmare to keep hold of. And Bran . . .” She shook her head sadly. “It is breaking his heart to know there is to be a tourney, and that he shall not see it.”

“I do not want you to push yourself . . .”

“Ned, I am fine. It is ridiculous for me to hide away in my chambers any longer. I know you have too many worries, my love, and I’ve tried to abide by your restrictions so that I do not add to them. Yet, I fear my continuing to behave as an invalid will do you more harm than good. I would be your wife, Ned, not your burden.”

“You are never a burden, Cat,” he said softly. “I . . . need you. Just to speak with you and hear your thoughts helps me more than I can say.”

“I can help you sleep as well, my love,” she whispered.

“I . . . but Bran . . .”

She sighed. “I fear I am sometimes as overprotective of the children as you are of me,” she said. “Bran must remain in my chambers as I do not want him moved at all until the hip is more stable. But you have long wanted me to sleep in here.”

He wanted that more than he could say, but he did not want to force her away from their injured child. He’d already abandoned three of their children this day. “I would not have you leave Bran if he does not wish it.”

“Bran will be fine, my love. I still intend to spend most of the daytime hours caring for him.” She reached up to touch his face again. “I can care for my husband as well.”

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “I have missed you,” he said simply.

She smiled. “I shall return to Bran for a bit. When the other children return from their meal, we can bring the girls here and tell them the conditions for their attendance at this tournament you do not want in your honor.”

“Only Sansa.”

“What?”

“Arya wants no part of it. She declared as much in the Small Hall and Sansa told her that no one wanted her there and . . .” He shook his head. “I do not know how to fix this rift between them, Catelyn. I have tried, but . . .”

“Oh, my love. Are they still behaving so dreadfully? I know they are not easy with each other still. I can feel the tension when they are together in my room, but they have refrained from attacking each other.”

“They are both concerned for you and Bran. It is the only thing upon which they agree, I fear.”

She sighed. “I should speak with both of them and . . .”

Her words were interrupted by rapid knocking upon the door. “Who’s there?” Ned called out in some irritation.

“I’m sorry, Lord Stark,” came Septa Mordane’s voice, “but it’s the Lady Arya. She fled from the hall and has locked herself into her room and . . .”

Ned sighed and walked over to open the door to the distraught woman. “I told her you would hear of this!” the septa exclaimed when the door was opened. Then she caught sight of Catelyn sitting upon the bed. “My lady! I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I would hope to have you disturb me any time something is amiss with one of my children, Septa Mordane,” Catelyn said, raising a brow.

“Of course, Lady Stark. It’s only that . . . Lord Stark said . . .I . . .”

“Lord Stark told you not to trouble me about the girls,” Catelyn stated. “I am quite well enough to deal with my daughters now, however. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” She rose from the bed and walked to Ned. “I’ll go to her, my love.”

Ned looked down at her a moment. Likely, she could handle the matter, whatever it was, better than he could. Yet, he couldn’t help recalling how Arya had been struggling not to cry in the Small Hall when he’d simply walked out. “No,” he said softly. “Not that you are incapable, my lady,” he said quickly before she could protest. He dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “But I am the one who left her in the Small Hall when I knew she was upset. Let me do this.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “I’ll be with Bran. Come to me after you’ve spoken to her.”

The septa filled Ned in on what had transpired with Arya as they walked to her room. It seemed as though she had thought to leave the hall before the meal was finished just as he had and reacted angrily and disrespectfully when Septa Mordane refused her permission to do so. She had run to the Tower, evaded Fat Tom at the door, and locked herself into her room refusing entry to the septa or anyone else regardless of what threats were made to her.

“Thank you, Septa Mordane,” Ned said as they neared Arya’s room. “I’ll go to her by myself now, if you please.”

The septa frowned a bit, likely wanting to scold the girl a bit more herself, but she nodded and said, “Very good, my lord,” before turning to go back down the corridor. Ned hoped she’d go back to the hall. Likely, she’d not gotten to finish her meal. Someone should eat a decent meal this night.

He knocked on Arya’s door softly, uncertain of what he would say to her. “Arya. Open the door. We need to talk.”

He heard the crossbar being raised almost immediately. She stood there looking up at him with angry grey eyes that seemed to lose a bit of that anger when she realized he had not brought her septa. “May I come in?” he asked, and she only nodded, dropping her eyes to the floor.

As he closed the door behind him and looked at his daughter closely, he was startled to realize she held a sword in her hand, a slender bladed thing, but no toy. “Whose sword is that?” he asked her.

“Mine,” she said.

Taken aback by that single word answer, he held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

She seemed loath to part with it, but she would not disobey him. The sword was light, even lighter than it looked, and finely balanced. He examined the weapon closely and touched his thumb lightly to its tip. This was no dulled practice or tourney blade. Where the devil had Arya gotten such a thing? “A bravo’s blade,” he said carefully, keeping his voice as even as he could. “Yet it seems to me that I know this maker’s mark. This is Mikken’s work.”

She didn’t answer him, but she looked down once more, confirming what he already knew to be true. He hadn’t thought he could feel more exhausted or more at a loss, but now he did. He sighed heavily.

“My nine-year-old daughter is being armed from my own forge, and I know nothing of it,” he said as much to himself as to her. “The Hand of the King is expected to rule the Seven Kingdoms, yet it seems I cannot even rule my own household. How is it that you come to own a sword, Arya? Where did you get this?”

Arya chewed her lip the way Catelyn did when she was deep in thought or did not wish to speak. Ned watched her for what seemed a long time, but it was clear that Arya would not name whoever had given her the blade.

“I don’t suppose it matters, truly,” he said finally, looking down at the small, elegant sword. “This is no toy for children, least of all for a girl. What would Septa Mordane say if she knew you were playing with swords? What would your mother say?”

“I wasn’t _playing_ ,” Arya insisted. “If you hadn’t known how to use a blade, Mother would be dead now. And I hate Septa Mordane.”

“That’s enough,” Ned said sharply. “The septa is doing no more than is her duty, though gods know you have made it a struggle for the poor woman. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady.”

“I don’t _want_ to be a lady!” Arya nearly shouted the words, and he watched the anger flare in her grey eyes reminding him painfully of another grey eyed girl.

“I ought to snap this toy across my knee here and now, and put an end to this nonsense.”

“Needle wouldn’t break,” his daughter said defiantly, but he could hear the fear of his actually doing it in her voice.

 _Needle_ , he thought, almost wanting to laugh although there was nothing amusing about the situation. This was likely the only needle in the world Arya would wish to protect from destruction. “It has a name, does it?” He sighed yet again. “Ah, Arya. You have a wildness in you, child. The wolf blood, my father used to call it. Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave.” Thoughts of his family members now long dead caused the old grief to settle into his heart. Looking at this daughter who so recalled his sister to him in this moment threatened to overwhelm him with both love and fear for her. “Lyanna might have carried a sword if my father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her.”

“Lyanna was beautiful,” Arya said, looking at him as if she doubted his words.

“She was,” he agreed simply. “Beautiful and willful, and dead before her time.” He pushed thoughts of Lyanna from his mind and held the sword out between his daughter and himself. “Arya, what did you think to do with this . . . Needle? Who did you hope to skewer? Your sister? Septa Mordane? Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?”

“Stick them with the pointy end,” she answered with almost no hesitation, and he found himself struggling to keep back laughter. 

“That _is_ the essence of it, I suppose.”

“I was trying to learn, but . . .” She hesitated for a moment, and Ned was startled to see her eyes suddenly fill with tears. “I asked Mycah to practice with me.” All at once, she was crying in earnest, and she turned her back on him. “I asked him,” she cried. “It was my fault, it was me . . .”

Ned laid the sword aside and moved to pull her into his arms at once and held her as she turned once more to press her face against his chest and sobbed. So she blamed herself for the boy’s death along the Trident. How had they not seen that? “No, sweet one,” he murmured to her as she cried. “Grieve for your friend, but never blame yourself. You did not kill the butcher’s boy. That murder lies at the Hound’s door, him and the cruel woman he serves.”

“I hate them,” Arya told him, looking up at him with red eyes and face, still sniffling. “The Hound and the queen and the king and Prince Joffrey. I hate all of them. Joffrey _lied,_ it wasn’t the way he said. I hate Sansa, too. She _did_ remember, she just lied so Joffrey would like her.

“We all lie,” Ned said softly, feeling the weight of his own lies, of the one great lie in particular, even more heavily than usual as he spoke this particular truth to his child. “Did you truly think your mother and I would believe that Nymeria ran off?”

She looked guilty. “Jory promised not to tell.”

“Jory kept his word,” Ned assured her. “There are some things we do not need to be told. Even a blind man could see that wolf would never have left you willingly.”

“We had to throw rocks,” Arya said. She looked miserable, but Ned sensed she needed to tell him this tale, and he remained silent. “I told her to run, to go be free, that I didn’t want her anymore. There were other wolves for her to play with, we heard them howling, and Jory said the woods were full of game, so she’d have deer to hunt. Only she kept following, and finally we had to throw rocks. I hit her twice. She whined and looked at me and I felt so ‘shamed, but it was right, wasn’t it? The queen would have killed her.”

“It was right,” Ned said firmly, giving her the assurance she needed. “And even the lie was . . . not without honor.” _Some lies are told for honorable reasons_ , he thought. _Although no lie is without cost_. He pulled his mind from that place for those thoughts would bring no peace to his daughter or himself. He picked up her little sword again and walked to the window. He looked over the courtyard below wishing for all the world that it was the courtyard of Winterfell, but those thoughts were of no help to any of them here, either. Slowly, he turned back to look at his little girl, and he sat down on the window seat with Needle across his lap. “Arya, sit down. I need to try and explain some things to you.”

She looked very anxious as she sat upon the very edge of her bed, and he tried to choose his words carefully. “You are too young to be burdened with all my cares,” he told her, “but you are also a Stark of Winterfell. You know our words.” 

“Winter is coming,” she whispered.

“The hard cruel times,” her father said. “We tasted them on the Trident, child, and when Bran fell, and again when that vile man attacked your mother and brother here. You were born in the long summer, sweet one, you’ve never known anything else, but now the winter is truly coming. Remember the sigil of our House, Arya.”

“The direwolf,” she said. When she hugged her knees tightly against her chest, Ned knew she likely thought of her own wolf and her siblings’. He prayed that Nymeria and Shaggydog were safe wherever they were, and he wished he could tell her the truth about Lady and Summer. _We all lie, indeed,_ he thought bitterly.

He concentrated on the needs of the child in front of him and sought the words to tell her what she must know. “Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, and Sansa . . . Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you . . . and I need both of you, gods help me. And so does your mother.”

“I don’t hate Sansa,” she said after a moment. “Not truly.”

She looked so sad that he hesitated to remind her of the behaviors that had caused him to come to her room, but it was too important that he make her understand. “I do not mean to frighten you, but neither will I lie to you. We have come to a dark dangerous place, child. This is not Winterfell. We have enemies who mean us ill. Take a good look at your mother’s hands or sit by your brother’s bed if you doubt that for one moment. We cannot fight a war among ourselves. This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience . . . at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter. It is time to begin growing up.”

“I will,” she said, and he heard the determination in her voice. “I can be as strong as Robb.”

Of course she had named her eldest brother when she thought of strength. How often had she watched Robb and Jon sparring in Winterfell’s practice yard? Strength, to Arya, was found in a blade. _If you hadn’t known how to use a blade, Mother would be dead now,_ she had said. That was true enough, but if Catelyn hadn’t been strong enough to grab a blade with her bare hands, she and Bran would both be dead now. Arya was watching him very closely. She needed her strength, he decided. All of them did if they were to survive this, and if strength to her meant a blade . . . “Here,” he said, holding the little sword out with the hilt facing her.

She looked as if she feared to touch it.

“Go on, it’s yours.”

She took it in her hand. “I can keep it? For true?”

“For true.” He smiled at her. “If I took it away, no doubt I’d find a Morningstar hidden under your pillow within a fortnight. Try not to stab your sister, whatever the provocation.”

“I won’t. I promise.” She clutched the little blade tightly to her chest as he turned to go. “Father . . . you won’t . . . you won’t tell Mother, will you?”

He turned back around to see her looking up at him with worried eyes, biting her lip once more.

“I do not keep secrets from your mother, Arya.” _We all lie,_ came the bitter thought again.

“But . . . but she’ll never let me keep it!”

“She will,” he assured her. “But there will be rules. And you will abide by them. Do you understand me? And you will apologize to Septa Mordane first thing tomorrow for your behavior in the Small Hall.”

She frowned once more, but she nodded, and Ned smiled at her before he left the room.

He found Sansa and Rickon with Bran and Catelyn, and so was able spend a bit of time with all of them before bidding Sansa and Rickon good night and sending them to their rooms. Likely, Rickon would go to Sansa’s. Ned didn’t mind his youngest son’s increased attachment to his oldest sister since they’d arrived at the Red Keep at all as it served to keep him out of his and Catelyn’s bed when he was frightened or lonely at night. Sansa had been rather subdued, and she had actually apologized to him for arguing with her sister over the meal. Catelyn had obviously spoken to her about it. Bran did not appear at all surprised or distressed when his mother rose to leave with Ned after they both kissed their son good night.

“I should go and see Arya before we go to your rooms, Ned,” Catelyn said once they were out in the corridor. 

“No, my love. She’s likely asleep by now. She’s had a very trying evening, I fear.” The last part was true, but Ned doubted their younger daughter was sleeping. Yet, he did not want Catelyn to discover her waving her “Needle” around before he’d had a chance to speak to her of it.

He waited until they were lying in the big, comfortable bed in his room, and Catelyn had snuggled up against him. “I need to tell you what I discussed with Arya tonight, my love.”

“I wish you would,” she said.

He started by telling her how Arya felt she was to blame for the butcher boy’s death, how her anger at Sansa was in part a result of her anger at herself and in part a result of feeling betrayed when Sansa had not corroborated her version of events at the river.

Catelyn had sighed deeply at that. “I’ve no doubt Arya told the truth that day,” she said. “She is wilder than she should be, but she is not dishonest.” He felt her hair move across his chest as she shook her head. “I fear the blind admiration Sansa has for Joffrey and his mother, and I fear that this betrothal will bring her no joy. I know I pushed for it, but Joffrey . . .Joffrey is . . .”

Ned sighed. “I know, my love. But this wedding need not occur for years, and if the boy’s nature is truly as cruel as it appears it may be, we will find a way to free her.”

“She doesn’t want to be freed. I went to her room with her for a bit after she and Rickon came back to the Tower, and while I think I made her see at least a bit how unkind she has been to Arya in some ways, she will believe no ill of Cersei or Joffrey.”

“She will do as we say, Cat. If we decide to remove her or any of the children from this place, they will go.”

He felt her nod. “What else did Arya tell you?” she asked after a moment.

“I told her we knew she lied about Nymeria running off and she told me how she’d gotten her to go.” He told her the story that Arya had relayed to him and how he had spoken of wolves to her in an effort to make her understand how they all needed to support one another, including her and her sister.

“That was well done, my love, but my poor, poor girl. I hate that she has carried all this inside her. I wish she had confided in one of us more readily. It breaks my heart to think she believed for one moment she was responsible for that boy’s death.”

“I know,” he said gravely, wondering how to bring up the next thing he had to tell her.

“Sword fighting!” she exclaimed, and for a moment, he thought she’d truly read his mind. “Whatever shall we do with her, Ned? Playing at sword fighting with sticks. Sometimes I despair of ever getting her to give up such nonsense!”

He swallowed. “I don’t think she’s going to give it up, Cat.”

“What? She has to give it up, and you know it. She’s only nine years old, but within three years, four at the most, she’ll be flowered and it will be time to talk of betrothals for her. She will be the lady of some lord’s castle, and she must learn what that means. That is her future, Ned, and we cannot leave her unprepared for it because she’d rather play with sticks.”

“We won’t leave her unprepared, my love. But I don’t think the swordsmanship is play to her.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed and simply said it. “I found her with an actual sword this evening. A weapon forged by Mikken in Winterfell.”

“What?” Catelyn sat straight up in the bed. “How dare the man give her steel? She’s a child! A girl child! What was he thinking?”

Ned sat up and took her hands in an effort to calm her. “I don’t think Mikken gave it to her, Cat, although it’s a light, slim bravo’s blade—perfect for someone of her size and strength. I believe someone had it made and then gave it to her, but I’ve no idea whom. She wouldn’t say.”

“She wouldn’t . . . you are her father, Eddard Stark. You should have insisted she tell you!”

“It is an honorable thing not to betray someone who’s done something on your behalf,” he said softly.

“Honorable? What idiot would give a little girl live steel? There’s no honor about it!”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, although he had an uncomfortable suspicion that he did know.

“No one at Winterfell would dare . . .” He could almost hear her thinking when her voice stopped like that. “The bastard,” she said after a moment, speaking his own suspicion aloud although with far more venom.

“We cannot know that, Catelyn.”

“We bloody well can. Mikken wouldn’t accept an order for a sword from just anyone, but he has a fondness for your bastard, and the boy is forever encouraging Arya in all her escapades. Likely, he thought it quite a lark to send her off to the capital with a sword. I could murder him!”

“Cat . . . even if Jon did give her the blade, he meant no harm in it. He had planned to go to the Wall, remember? He and Arya have ever been close, and I can well imagine his wanting to give a gift to a sister he feared he might never see again.”

“A sword is not a gift for a young girl. Even a bastard should know better!”

“It is a gift that Arya would appreciate. She loves it, Cat. She was heartbroken at the thought of losing it.”

The room was dark, but he could see Catelyn’s eyes regarding his in the pale moonlight that shown in from the window. “You let her keep it,” she said slowly.

“I only . . .”

“Do not lie to me, Eddard Stark. You allowed our nine-year-old daughter to keep a sword when you did not allow your son and heir to wear live steel until we left him alone at Winterfell! Robb is nearly five and ten! A young man!”

“She is not going to wear it!” he exclaimed. “I warned her there would be rules.” He paused again and then told his wife what he had not yet told his daughter. “I intend to find her a swordmaster.”

“You what?” Catelyn appeared to be too stunned by that pronouncement to be furious about it.

“A swordmaster,” he repeated. “The child has a wildness in her, you’ve said it yourself. And sword fighting done correctly requires a great deal of discipline which may help curb that wildness. I don’t intend to have her taught like Robb and Jon and Bran.” He swallowed, grateful that she was at least allowing him to speak. Or perhaps she was still stunned speechless. “It’s a bravo’s blade, as I said, suitable for a quick moving form of swordsmanship that’s truly as much a dance as it is anything else. It’s even called dancing. Water dancing. If I can find her an instructor, she’ll be using a wooden sword just as the boys did back home. Her Needle will be kept hidden away, Cat, something for her to look at only in her room. And her sword lessons will be entirely dependent upon her willingness to do the things you and Septa Mordane ask of her. And upon her avoiding antagonizing her sister.”

“I don’t like it,” Catelyn said flatly.

“I didn’t expect you would,” Ned told her. “But I believe it will help her survive living here without going mad or murdering her sister. And that is to be desired, is it not?”

Catelyn was silent for a long while before lying back down with a sigh. “She’s not a boy, Ned. Do we truly do her any favors by encouraging this?”

He lay down as well and was pleased to find that she didn’t stiffen or pull away when he reached to pull her into his arms. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But she is still a child for now. And it will make her happy. Gods, Cat, I need one of them to be happy—even if for a little while in this godsforsaken place.”

“Very well, my lord. I will not speak against it.”

He could hear the many reservations she still harbored in the tightness of her voice, and he gently kissed her forehead. “Thank you, my love,” he whispered.

“But I still shall have quite a few words for Jon Snow if he indeed gave her a sword.”

Ned did not respond, knowing that anything he said in Jon’s defense would only serve to agitate her further, and he had no wish to cause her to reconsider her grudging acceptance of his plan for Arya. He did wonder if she would be so horrified about the sword if she suspected Robb as the gifter rather than Jon, but he certainly wouldn’t ask her that.

“Needle,” she said suddenly. “What did you mean when you said her needle will be kept hidden away? I will not allow her to abandon sewing for this foolishness.”

Ned laughed out loud. “Of course, you will not. I told you her receiving the ‘dancing lessons’ will depend upon her doing things required of her. That includes sewing whether she likes it or not. Needle happens to be the name she gave her sword.”

Surprisingly enough, Catelyn laughed at that. “Well, I suppose that’s apt enough. I’ve seen her look at a sewing needle on more than one occasion as if she’d rather stab it into someone’s eye than sew another stitch.” She sighed and pressed herself against him. “It must be kept hidden away, and these lessons must be secret as well. Sansa would be scandalized, and I shudder to think what she’d say to her sister about it.”

“You aren’t scandalized then?”

“Of course, I am. But unlike Sansa, I’m old enough to hold my tongue.”

He pressed a kiss to her lips, and felt them open to his own tongue. After a few blissful moments of kissing her with their bodies pressed against each other, he felt decidedly less interested in sleep in spite of his exhaustion and found her more than willing to accommodate his desire.

They moved slowly and made love almost lazily as his body was physically exhausted and her hands were still bandaged and clumsy, but he savored every moment of it, and afterward, with her curled up against him, he knew he would sleep this night.

“Ned,” she said sleepily before he could drift off. “If he did give her the sword, you know her attachment to it has as much to do with its being from him as it does with its being a weapon. I won’t pretend that makes me happy, but it does mean that her desire to actually use the damn thing may wane as she gets older—mayhap she’ll soon give up on this dancing you intend to have her learn and simply let the thing become a keepsake of sorts.”

“You’d prefer that?” he asked her, honestly curious.

He felt her shrug. “I’d prefer her not want anything to do with swords at all, but given the two unpleasant options of having my daughter aspire to battle with swords long after childhood passes or cherish a blade only for the affection she bears her bastard brother—I suppose I do prefer the latter.”

He was quiet for a bit and felt her body relax into sleep against him. “Her brother” he whispered softly. "He has always been her brother." _We all lie,_ came the inevitable self-censure. _And all lies have cost._ Gods knew he had more reason to know that than most men.

He had also had far more practice than any honest man should at burying such knowledge deep within his own mind where he did not have to constantly look upon it, and he yawned and did so now. His children seemed at least a bit more settled, his wife and son were both recovering, Catelyn had miraculously agreed to his plans for Arya, and she now slept in his arms. Tomorrow he would once again go about the business of ruling a kingdom for a disinterested king while searching for answers to far too many troubling questions. Tonight, however, the Hand of the King would sleep.


	5. Daggers, Doubts, and Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit different in that it contains four POVS, none of them Ned or Catelyn. While the vast majority of the chapters in this fic will be single POVs from Lord or Lady Stark, there will be at least three more multi-POV chapters from other characters in order to tell the entirety of the story.

Cersei Lannister waited until she was certain her maid had been given enough to time to be gone from the corridor outside her room, and then she opened the door. “Get inside, quickly!” she hissed at her brother.

Never one to hesitate when faced with that particular invitation, Jaime was in her room with the door closed and barred behind him almost instantly. Then he moved with great haste to take her into his arms as his white cloak billowed briefly behind him.

“I have missed you, sweet sister,” he whispered into her ear before moving his lips to her neck.”

“We have to talk, Jaime.”

“I don’t want to talk.” He gripped her more tightly against him, and she experienced her own jolt of desire at the way he was already hardening. She could feel him easily enough through her skirts and his breeches, and she wanted him, too. But they had no time for that.

“Jaime, stop,” she said, irritably, pushing him away from her. She then walked several paces away from him, thinking she could hold a more coherent conversation with him if she could only slow her breathing. And his. They hadn’t lain together in several days—not since the attack on the Starks. And even before that, they’d had only one chance since their return to King’s Landing after that endless abysmal journey from Winterfell. She loved the way he hungered for her. But they had to go carefully here. They had to think.

He looked hurt and even a little angry at her rebuff, but there was no help for it. “Lady Stark is recovered enough from her injuries to receive visitors,” she said flatly.

“I’ve no desire to visit Lady Stark.”

“Neither do I, Jaime,” she said testily. “But visit her, I shall. I’ve sent my maid with a message to that effect just now. Which gives us a little time alone here.”

“Which you are wasting, Cersei.”

“We have to deal with the Starks, Jaime! I have to get into the Tower of the Hand and smile and be sympathetic to that tiresome woman so that I can see where their suspicions lie.”

“The Starks can go hang, for all I care. All of them. Frozen Lord Eddard and his red-headed trout and all their assorted pups.”

“Don’t ever say that!” she hissed at him, walking back to stand directly in front of him and look him in the eyes. “Don’t even think it. Do you want people believing you bear them some ill will?”

He shrugged and half-smiled at her before replying almost lazily, “I can’t pretend to love them, sweet sister. And neither can you.”

Something in his words gave her pause. He’d already promised her, but . . . “Jaime. You didn’t have anything to do with the attack on Catelyn Stark and her son, did you? Swear to me again that you know nothing about it!”

Anger flashed briefly in the green eyes which mirrored her own. “I already told you I know nothing about it. Should I have you swear your innocence to me again as well? How many oaths are required before you believe me, Cersei? I believed you at your first words.”

She felt something almost like contrition at that. She had no reason to disbelieve him. Jaime irritated her at times. He was far too reckless. But he never lied to her. “I believe you, Jaime. I am just worried about what may come of this. We can ill afford a prolonged investigation into this attack.”

“Why your concern? We are innocent, Your Grace. We’ve nothing to fear in this.”

“Innocent?” she snapped at him. “Have you forgotten how Bran Stark came to fall that day? Are you blind to the way Lord Eddard glares at us or the suspicious attitude of his lady wife. Gods, Jaime! I had to spend the entire journey south locked in the wheelhouse with that woman, and she was insufferable!” She shook her head. “I am not deaf, and I heard the whispers before we ever left Winterfell. How you had not gone hunting with the other men. How neither of us appeared out in the courtyard when the commotion drew almost every other person in the castle. We must keep ourselves above suspicion.”

Jaime sighed. “If the boy remembered anything, he’d have said something by now.”

She preferred not to think about what Bran Stark may or may not remember. While she would gladly murder whatever fool had sent a knife after the brat right here in the Red Keep if she only knew their identity, she couldn’t help wishing their bumbling assassin had at least finished the job since he had been there. Bran Stark could cause serious problems if he ever did open his mouth. Especially now. Because if the truth of events in Winterfell was even suspected, it wouldn’t matter who ordered that attack on the boy here. No one would believe it was anyone but Jaime or herself. She couldn’t even imagine a motive for anyone else, and gods knew she had thought about it enough since she first heard of the failed murders.

Bran Stark was terrified of her. She’d seen to that, carefully making him feel threatened in her presence without actually revealing anything to him that he didn’t already recall. His memories of that day were certainly muddled. She knew that. She had some hope that he didn’t recall Jaime being there at all because she never saw that fear in the child’s eyes when he looked at Jaime. Only when he looked at her. That was good. Because she had never touched the brat, of course, and if he didn’t remember Jaime’s presence, then he had no idea how he had fallen, at least.

“Why did you have to push him?” she sighed for at least the hundredth time.

“Now who’s saying things aloud which should not be spoken?” he asked her. “And you know why.”

“He’s a child! Scarcely Tommen’s age. Do you honestly think he even realized what he saw?” She shook her head. “He could have been silenced easily enough. How many times did we hear his mother forbid him to climb the castle walls? He couldn’t have told anyone anything without incriminating himself, and I’ve not found that little boys are fond of doing that. And they’re easy enough to frighten if necessary.”

“We’ve been over this before, Cersei,” Jaime said tiredly.

They had, of course, and continuing to berate him about it served no purpose. She knew that. He would never hesitate to kill for her. She knew that, too. He loved her that much, and the knowledge of it thrilled her and made her feel powerful. A man as bold as Jaime would be reckless at times. And she did not want a craven in her bed any more than she wanted a fat, slobbering drunk. She only wanted Jaime.

“I have to pay a visit to the Starks,” she said. “And I want you to stay close to my drunken oaf of a husband.”

He raised a brow. Ordinarily, she liked to keep him as her guard even when she wasn’t allowing him within her chambers or bed. 

“We need to know what progress is being made in this investigation, Jaime. And the gods know Robert doesn’t talk to me. He’s got Selmy running around showing people the dagger apparently, so other members of the Kingsguard are attending him more frequently. I need you to be one of them. And to listen to whatever is said.”

He nodded. He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t stupid. She’d known he’d see the usefulness of it. It would also be best if the two of them were seen frequently to be apart for the present, but he wouldn’t like that at all so she didn’t mention it.

“What of your guard?” he asked her.

“I’m taking Joffrey with me to call on the Starks, so his Hound can come with us as well as whatever Kingsguard is with him today. Joff needs to spend time with his little bride-to-be. She’s a pretty thing, and courteous enough for all that she was raised in the wilderness. And most importantly, she’s malleable. If he charms her, she’ll belong to him—belong to us. And that is a weapon we can wield well against my husband’s pet Northman.”

“Charm her?” Jaime asked. “If you wanted the girl to love us, you might have thought of it before you had her own pet killed.”

Cersei shrugged. “She’ll get over that, I’m certain. And while it’s important not make overt enemies of the Starks if we can help it, we cannot let them forget who they are. And who we are. I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Jaime. And Joffrey is the heir to the Iron Throne. We will not be crossed.”

“No,” he said, raising a hand up to cup her cheek. “No one will cross you, sweet sister. I will not allow it.”

She smiled at him. “Always my champion,” she said. “Always my love.”

His hand moved to the back of her head and gripped her almost painfully. “Cersei,” he said. “I need you.”

She swallowed. She needed him, too, but . . . “We must be quick about it,” she heard herself say.

Then his mouth was on hers and she was pushed roughly back against the wall as he pawed at the front laces of her dress. “No,” she panted. “We don’t have time for that.” She kissed him hard. “There,” she said, pointing to the table in the corner.

Without replying, he picked her up and carried her to the table, her legs wrapped around him and her arms struggling to raise the skirts in her way. When he set her down on the table, he jerked her skirts up to her waist in one swift move, and slipped one hand beneath her smallclothes. She gasped at the contact of his fingers with her flesh and moved her own hands to pull her smallclothes off as he used his other hand to free himself from his breeches.

Then he was inside her, completely burying himself within her at once. She bit down hard on his shoulder and put her hands behind him encouraging him to keep going. He thrust into her repeatedly and forcefully, although neither of them made a sound save for their breathing. Years of forbidden lovemaking and fear of discovery had taught them to silence any cries that might otherwise have escaped them in their passion. She kept her face buried in the fabric of his shirt as they moved together and trembled in his arms as she felt the wet heat inside her as they finished together.

 _Together,_ she thought as they held each other there, spent and satisfied. _We belong always together._

But, of course, they couldn’t remain that way. So within only moments, she had sent him on his way—a loyal member of the Kingsguard off to do his duty to good King Robert. Once the door closed behind him, she dipped a cloth in a basin of water and gathered her skirts in one arm to raise them up once more. Then the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms carefully wiped all remnants of her brother’s seed from her thighs before her maid returned with Catelyn Stark’s response to her proposed visit.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Ser Barristan Selmy walked slowly down the corridor toward the small room where he knew the King met with his Hand. He had no desire to speak with Eddard Stark. It had not been easy to face the man since he’d first seen that dagger laid on the council table several days ago. Lord Stark was a good man. There were few in the Seven Kingdoms with half the man’s honor, in spite of his bastard or the whispers about Harrenhal. Barristan frowned. He, of course, knew more of what had happened at Harrenhal than most did. He had no great love for House Stark, but he had to admit that Eddard Stark was an honorable man. And he deserved the truth. His family deserved justice and protection. 

_But I am the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. My first responsibility is to the King. Always._ He believed in that white cloak he wore about his shoulders. From the moment he’d taken his vows at three and twenty before King Jaehaerys, and the White Bull had put that cloak upon him, he had believed in all it stood for. When he’d stolen into Duskendale by night and scaled the walls of Dunfort castle to rescue King Aerys, he had done no more than what a knight of the Kingsguard should do in the service of his king. But he had taken a certain amount of pride in his adherence to his duty then.

Later, taking any pride in his duty to King Aerys had become more difficult with the man’s ever worsening descent into madness and cruelty. But, still he had served. He had given the Targaryen kings who’d raised him to this title his full measure of loyalty until he had no more to give and would have gladly died for the cause at the Trident. But Robert Baratheon had spared his life, seen to his wounds, and then given him a choice.

He had made that choice. With no Targaryens left to serve, he had sworn himself to this new king—a man who had proven both valiant and merciful in battle. He still wondered if he had made the right choice, and some actions of King Robert’s since had caused him to fear that he had not. But he had honored his vow to Aerys regardless of the man’s actions, and he’d sworn the same vow to Robert Baratheon. He may never know the right or wrong of his decisions, but he did know what it meant to make and keep a vow. He was fully prepared to pay the cost of keeping his vows himself. It was the cost to others that kept him from sleep sometimes. _Ashara._ Her name came unbidden to his mind, bringing with it the long familiar mixture of tenderness, pain, and guilt. Would anything have been different had he acted then without regard to his honor or his vow? He would never know. 

_The vow is all I can be certain of. I am a knight of the Kingsguard. My first responsibility is to protect my King. Always._

He was somewhat surprised to see Jaime Lannister standing outside the door to the room where King Robert and Lord Stark were meeting together. The man almost always guarded his sister, the queen, who had little tolerance for most of the Kingsguard knights save her brother and Ser Mandon Moore. As very few people found Ser Mandon agreeable at all, the woman’s preference for him had always surprised Barristan, but then again he did not find the queen particularly agreeable either. As for Jaime Lannister, the white cloak upon the shoulders of the man called Kingslayer was a stain upon the Kingsguard. Whatever crimes had been committed by Aerys Targaryen, they could never justify his murder at the hands of one who’d given a sacred vow to protect him above all else. Eddard Stark had been correct all those years ago when he’d insisted that Lannister be forced to take the black for that murder, but King Robert had not been swayed. Bitterly, Barristan wondered what Stark would say now if he knew the secret he kept for the sake of his own vow. Would the Northman who so condemned Jaime Lannister for breaking his vow to a king who’d been his enemy wish to condemn Selmy for keeping his vow to the king he believed to be his friend? 

“Ser Jaime,” he said, as he approached the young man who had killed Aerys Targaryen, and the Kingslayer turned slightly to face him.

“Lord Commander,” he replied smoothly, with a slight bow of his head.

“I did not think to find you attending His Grace. Is the King still within?”

“Yes, Lord Commander. He and Lord Stark have been conversing for some time. I was free and offered to give Ser Arys some respite from his watch.”

“There is no guard within?”

Barristan thought he detected a slight scowl on Lannister’s handsome face as he replied, “No. It would seem the King wishes to keep this discussion entirely private—even from those sworn to keep his confidences.” 

_We are sworn to guard his life as well,_ Barristan thought darkly. _But what does that mean to a man such as you?_

Lannister smiled suddenly, as if aware of the older man’s thoughts about his words. “Of course, I hardly think His Grace is in danger from Lord Stark. And I can guard him from all others quite well outside this door.”

“Indeed,” Barristan agreed. “But you may go now, Ser Jaime. I have need to speak with His Grace, and so I will stand watch here until he and Lord Stark have finished their business together."

Curiosity brightened the green eyes. “Have you found something then? Have your investigations into the origin of the knife used on Lady Stark turned up an answer?”

“My investigation continues,” Barristan said brusquely. “As do the investigations of others. But whatever I have to report is for His Grace’s ears and not yours.”

“Of course, Lord Commander.” The younger man bowed respectfully and did a passable job of keeping his expression neutral, but Barristan could see the anger his dismissal had provoked. No matter. Jaime Lannister deserved neither respect nor answers.

Dutifully, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard took up a watchful position, both hoping that the meeting within the room would end before long and somewhat dreading coming face to face with Eddard Stark. Lannister may not deserve answers, but Stark did. And he could not give him any. However, he could ask questions of the King himself, and he felt he needed to do so, whatever those questions and their answers cost him. As Lord Stark insisted that the King at least curb his thirst for spirits when the two of them discussed matters of the realm, he had hopes His Grace would be in clear mind at the conclusion of this meeting which is why he had chosen to do this now.

After some time, the door opened, and he stood smartly to attention. Robert Baratheon’s large frame filled the doorway. “Ser Barristan!” he said in some surprise. “I thought it was the Kingslayer that Ser Arys said was relieving him when he left earlier.”

“I relieved Ser Jaime, Your Grace. I have need to speak with you.”

The King sighed audibly. His eyes were clear, and he indeed seemed sober, but he also gave the impression that he did not wish to remain so much longer. “Gods be good, man. Ned’s already talked my ears off. What have you to say?”

“It is a matter of . . .”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Ned Stark interrupted then, moving to a position where he could see and be seen by Barristan around the much larger man who stood between them. “Have you discovered anything more about the dagger that villain wielded against my wife?”

The man’s grey eyes looked both pained and angry. It recalled to Barristan another time when a much younger Eddard Stark’s eyes had held a similar mixture of emotions as he’d watched his elder brother lead a dark haired beauty away from the dancing. He felt a brief flash of his own anger then. Stark had done nothing to stop it. But guilt quickly swallowed that anger. He had done nothing to stop it either. He had remained silent and still beside his king. He had done nothing to stop any of the wrongs that began at that cursed tournament.

“Ser Barristan?” Stark’s voice interrupted his memory, and he was startled to see that the grey eyes now looked at him with a concerned sort of puzzlement.

“Forgive me, Lord Stark,” he said quickly. “But no. I have no new answers since I first laid eyes upon that dagger in the council room.” _That is truth, at least,_ he thought. 

Stark looked disappointed, but he somewhat resolutely set his jaw. “My own men tell me they have not been shown the dagger. I do not believe any of them will recognize it, but I cannot know for certain it did not come here from Winterfell.” An almost imperceptible movement of his jaw followed those words as if the man had more he wanted to say, but did not.

 _It did not come from Winterfell._ “I will question your men, my lord. I did not wish to do so without speaking to you first as I know you trust them, and I had no wish to give offense.”

“No offense will be taken.” He looked at the king then. “If I have your leave then, Your Grace, I would return to the Tower of the Hand and see to my family.” Turning back to Barristan, he added, “Unless your words need my attention as well as the king’s, Ser Barristan?”

“No, my lord,” Barristan said quickly. “It is a matter that need not concern you.” _And that is not truth at all._

“Go on, Ned,” King Robert said, moving back out of the doorway so that Lord Stark could pass. “And you come in, I suppose,” he sighed, motioning Barristan into the room as well. “My arse has spent an eternity in that damned chair over there already. I suppose it can stand another few moments in it.”

Without another word to Lord Stark or himself, the king strode over to a small table with two chairs pushed back from it, apparently where the two men had been sitting. He sat in one of them and leaned back, waiting to hear what Barristan had to say. Lord Stark nodded to both of them and left, closing the door behind him.

Steeling himself, Barristan pulled the dagger from where he had it concealed within his coat and walked to lay it upon the table in front of the king. “Do you not recognize this blade, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Of course, I bloody recognize it!” Robert Baratheon snapped at him. “At least you’ve cleaned poor Lady Catelyn’s blood off it even if you haven’t found anything of use from it!”

Barristan looked at him closely, wondering at his words. “Yes, Your Grace, this is the blade that cut Lady Stark. But did you not recognize it when Lord Stark first brought it to the council chamber?”

He could almost see the stormclouds gathering in Robert Baratheon’s eyes. “Are you actually questioning me as you have questioned other men, Selmy? Of course, I didn’t recognize it! Why the devil would you think I did?”

“Because it belongs to you,Your Grace.”

The storm in the king’s eyes blazed into full fury as he sprang to his feet with far more speed and agility than Barristan would have expected from so heavy a man, banging a large fist down on the table with so much force that the dagger in question was actually bounced into the air before falling to the wooden surface once more. “How dare you!” the man demanded. “You accuse me of sending that assassin into the the Tower of the Hand?” He took three quick steps forward and closed his large hands on Barristan’s throat.

It took every bit of self-control Selmy had to still his warrior’s instincts and keep himself from raising his sword in self-defense against his king. Instead, he met the man’s furious gaze steadily and concentrated on breathing through his constricted airway.

“I would never harm Ned’s child! Or his wife!” Robert shouted directly into his face. “Before I squeeze the life from you, I would hear the reasons you speak such a foul lie!”

In spite of the immediate threat to his life, Barristan felt a sudden rush of relief at the man’s words. The fury in that face and voice held no guilt or guile. Only shock, revulsion, and anger at the mere suggestion he had some connection to the attack on Lady Stark. On the wife of his closest friend.

“I mean no accusation, Your Grace,” Barristan managed to croak out. “Of course, you are not behind this attack!” _I know that now,_ he thought. But he had harbored some doubts. While Robert Baratheon had shown commendable honor as a warrior in battle, some of the events after the battles all ended had given reason to doubt the extent of that honor. Barristan could not ever forget the murders of Elia Martell and her children—not by the king’s hands or by his orders, he knew. But still, the king had sought no justice for the princess or her babes. Rather, it seemed he’d given his tacit approval to the Lannisters’ heinous actions after the fact. And if he could condone the murder of children once . . .

“Then explain yourself, old man, and do it quickly before I regret not listening to Bolton at the Trident!” The king’s hands released him, but he did not step back at all, still glaring directly into Barristan’s eyes and visibly shaking with rage.

“The dagger,” Selmy rasped, after taking a few deep breaths. “I recognized it immediately. As soon as Stark laid it on the table.”

“You recognized it?” Robert bellowed in disbelief. “Why did you not speak up?

“Because the dagger is yours, Your Grace,” he answered, very quickly adding, “Although it is plain to me now that you do not recall it.” The king looked down at the knife on the table beside them and then back up at his face, his blue eyes questioning. 

Barristan swallowed. “I thought at first you would recognize the blade as well,” he said carefully. “In light of Lord Stark’s understandable anger, I did not think it my place to tell what I knew of the blade before you spoke of it yourself. I am Kingsguard, Your Grace. I am your man.”

The king looked at him very carefully and gave a grudging sort of nod. “Tell me now,” he said brusquely.

“I had not seen that dagger since the day it came into your possession. I was at your side at the tournament for your son’s name day. You had been watching young Loras Tyrell in the joust and stating your opinion that he had the skill to unseat Jaime Lannister.”

In spite of the tense atmosphere, the hint of a grin appeared. “The Tyrell boy was good. And I wanted to see that smug golden bastard hit the ground. My good wife didn’t like that at all.”

Barristan chose not to respond to the king’s comments about his wife or goodbrother. “When the two of them finally faced each other, you made a wager with . . .”

“Anyone who’d wager anything!” the king interrupted. “Gods! So many men believed the damn Kingslayer invincible. They offered up gold, jewels, weapons . . .” His face suddenly went slack, and he turned back to the table, sitting slowly back down in his seat and picking up the dagger by its dragonbone hilt. He was sober today, likely thanks to Eddard Stark, but Barristan recalled he had been well into his cups by the time he’d been roaring about taking all wagers for the joust between Lannister and Tyrell. As he stared at the dagger in his hand now, Barristan wondered if he truly had spared it more than a glance on that day. It was a beautiful thing. Perfectly crafted and perfectly deadly. Not an easy blade to forget.

“Baelish,” the king said almost to himself as he stared at the dagger. Then he looked up. “I won this from Petyr Baelish. He bet on the Kingslayer.”

Selmy nodded.

“But he was in that council room! Surely the man recognized the blade he lost! Why the devil hasn’t he said anything? Or has he come to you?”

The consternation on the king’s face confirmed that he was not in league with Baelish in any way. If Barristan had needed further evidence that Robert was guilty of nothing more than a poor memory and drunken carelessness, he had it now. Quickly, he seated himself across from his king and laid out the facts as he knew them.

“Baelish certainly recognized the blade. I cannot see how it could be otherwise. Yet, he has not spoken to me or anyone of it as far I know. That strikes me as odd. Surely, he must realize that others in that room would know the blade as well.” He hesitated. “Unless he fears that . . .”

“That I am behind this attack, and he wishes to keep his own head upon his shoulders,” Robert said grimly. The king drank far too much and had little subtlety, but he was not a fool. “I know little about the man, in truth, other than his remarkable skill for procuring coin when it is needed. But he does seem a man who puts his own neck above anyone else’s.” He shook his head. “But for all his crowing about his great youthful love for Ned’s wife and that damned duel he fought with Brandon Stark over her, you’d think the man would be more concerned about her nearly being killed!”

Barristan was quiet a moment. “Do you believe the man’s tales?” he asked finally. “All of them, I mean?”

The king shrugged. “I can’t say I know Lady Catelyn all that well, although she certainly seems as devoted to honor and duty as Ned is, and that’s saying something. She’s been a good wife to him, and I’m certainly not going to go ask the man if his wife was a maiden when he first had her at Riverrun!” He shook his head. “What does it matter now anyway?”

“I only wondered if Baelish might harbor some desire yet for Lady Stark that would cause him to wish ill on Lord Eddard or his children.”

The king shook his head again. “I think it more likely he’s too craven to admit to anyone the knife is mine. He couldn’t have gotten to it in any event. So whatever his reason for keeping silent, he’s not the one who sent the villain to Ned’s boy’s room.”

“Where was the dagger kept, Your Grace?”

The King frowned. “Well, I can’t honestly recall seeing it since I won the damn thing. I have a lot of weapons—gifts given to me, prizes won, various blades or other things commissioned for ceremonies and the like. Those are generally kept in a room in my private chambers—it’s as much a display as it is storage, but I’ve little cause to look at them. They’re no more than decoration. I’ve no use for weaponry I’ve not wielded in battle myself.”

“I know the room. The dagger would have been there?”

“I can’t think it would have been put anywhere else.”

“There aren’t many who have access to your chambers, are there, Your Grace?”

“No,” the king said softly. He rose again from his chair and walked away toward a window, standing there and looking out with a grim expression on his face. “Ser Barristan,” he said after a moment, without turning around, “I want my wife and her brother watched closely.”

“Your Grace?”

He turned around suddenly. “I do not believe either of them would do something so vile, but . . .” His jaw tightened. “They are two who were unaccounted for when the Stark boy fell. At Winterfell. Cersei said she had been resting in her chambers after sending Myrcella off with the Stark girls and didn’t hear any of the commotion until it was all over. The Kingslayer said he heard some shouting, but considered it his duty to stay outside the queen’s door as he was assigned to guard her.” He shrugged. “As I said, there is no reason for either of them to wish ill upon the Starks, but Lady Stark asked my wife more than once where she was that afternoon, and I know Cersei resented her questioning.”

“I will keep watch, Your Grace. What of others? We should think on who else may have had reason to be within your chambers—even before you ever journeyed to Winterfell. The knife could have been taken almost as soon as you won it if you have given it no thought since.”

King Robert nodded absently, looking at the window again. Thinking of the various times he had stood guard outside the king’s chambers, another thought struck Barristan then.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but . . . what of . . . bed companions? There have been a number of young women both from within the Red Keep and from the town who have been brought to your chambers.”

An exceedingly bitter laugh escaped Robert Baratheon’s lips then. “I don’t recall their names, Ser Barristan. Or even most of their faces. But I assure you they were not wandering about pilfering knives. They were serving their king.” 

The words were bitter, and the king’s voice contained a measure of self-loathing that Barristan could not recall hearing there before. He feared the man was likely wrong about the potential for the various whores and maids and serving girls to rob him, though. He drank heavily enough that he more often than not passed out immediately after fucking them, if not in the midst of the act. The Kingsguard knights who stood outside his door would enter discreetly once the grunts and other sounds had ceased in order to escort the girls away, but he could not be certain that one of those girls had not taken a chance and taken the blade, either for herself or at the bidding of another. Of course, he had no way of knowing who might have paid a girl to do such a thing. Or why.

“Do you want Lord Stark to know of this?” he asked.

The king looked back at him, his face more anguished than angry or bitter now. “No,” he said finally. “I cannot see what purpose that would serve. And I . . . to think that it was my blade . . . however little I’ve ever touched the thing.” He took a deep breath and turned back toward the window. “It’s all been wrong, you know. Since Lyanna died. None of this . . .” He made a vague sort of motion with his arms that seemed to encompass more than simply the current conversation. “None of this would have happened had Lyanna been my wife. My Queen. That is how it was meant to be.”

Barristan wasn’t certain whether the King was speaking to him or to himself by the time he said the last. “Would you like me to question Lord Baelish about his silence, Your Grace?”

He shook his head. “Let him keep his silence and worry about it. He didn’t send the killer, but he does play some game here. And I do not trust the man. Let’s see if he gives his own game away.”

Privately, Barristan thought it might be better to press the Master of Coin for whatever information he had. It was not inconceivable that he had paid someone to take the knife from Robert’s chambers—either because he simply wanted it back or because he had some plan for it. Although, there seemed to be no sensible motive for him to attack Lady Stark. He would watch the queen and the Kingslayer. The queen visibly despised the Starks, especially since the wolf had attacked Prince Joffrey on the journey from Winterfell. And the Kingslayer despised anyone his sister did. But, save for pure spite, neither of them had any discernible motive for attacking little Brandon or his mother either. It would, in fact, have been an exceedingly stupid thing for either of them to do, given that their enmity was well enough known.

“What would you have me do with the dagger, Your Grace?”

“Throw it in the river for all I care! I don’t want it.” He sighed. “Take it, I suppose. You may still come across someone who has seen it where it should not be. And by all the gods, Ser Barristan, keep Ned’s family safe. I brought them here, dammit! I’ll not have them threatened and harmed with blades from my own collection.”

“My duty is to protect my king,” Barristan replied solemnly, “But I will do what I can to see that Lord Stark’s family is sufficiently protected as well.” 

When the king said nothing else, he said, “I should go now, Your Grace, but I shall send one of my brothers to attend you here and go with you wherever you choose to go now.”

Robert nodded wearily. “Whoever you send, send him with ale.”

Barristan nodded and bent to retrieve the dagger the king had left lying the table. He left the king standing by the window and heard him whisper, “It’s all gone wrong, Lyanna. All wrong.”

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“It is such a wonderful thing to see you looking so well, Lady Catelyn,” the queen said with a smile on her beautiful face.

Sansa didn’t truly think her lady mother looked terribly well at all, but it was kind of the queen to say so. Mother smiled rather tightly at the woman’s words, and Sansa wished she would look happier, but she supposed it was difficult for mother receiving visitors at all after that horrible attack. Her lady mother would never be intentionally discourteous to the queen.

“I am feeling a bit stronger each day, Your Grace,” Mother said. “And I thank you for your concern about Bran and myself.”

“That poor boy,” Queen Cersei said, an expression of sympathy replacing her smile. “He cannot have visitors at all, still? Tommen will be quite disappointed. He wishes very much to see him. We all consider him very dear.”

Mother’s face had been much paler than usual since the night her hands had been so brutally cut, but Sansa saw faint spots of color come to her cheeks, and her mouth narrowed to a thin, hard line before she replied. “He is simply not up to it yet,” she said. “The hip that was injured in his fall was re-injured when he fled our attacker and ran to get my lord husband. To push him too much is to risk permanent harm, and that is something I will not allow, Your Grace.”

“Of course not,” the queen said. Her voice sounded a touch cooler then. Sansa couldn’t really blame her. Mother had sounded almost as if she were angry at the queen, even though nothing that had happened to Bran was Queen Cersei’s fault. 

_It is her fault Lady is dead,_ came the small voice in her head that wouldn’t go away. _No!_ She stubbornly reminded herself that it had been Arya’s fault, really. If Arya didn’t play stupid games with unsuitable boys . . . if Arya could ever control her temper . . . or her direwolf . . . none of it would have happened. Father would never have . . . _Father killed my wolf. Lady is dead. Father killed her._ Every time she thought of it, the pain came fresh, and she squeezed her eyes tightly a moment against the memory of that day.

“Sansa? Are you all right, sweetling?”

Her mother was looking at her with concern, and Sansa felt guilty for the unkind thoughts she’d had about her a moment ago. “I am well, Mother.”

“You look very lovely today, Lady Sansa.” The voice of her prince made her feel warm. He’d come into the small solar where Mother had gathered them to await the queen’s visit, escorting his own mother. Yet, he had not spoken until now.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, feeling the blush in her cheeks. 

“I wanted to come before, but your mother refused all visitors on your behalf. Even though you were never injured.”

His words sounded worse than the meant them, she was certain. It was only his concern for her and his dismay at not having been able to see her that made him speak so harshly of her lady mother.

“I was not up to visitors, Your Grace,” she said softly, not wishing to offend her prince, but feeling the need to stand up for her mother in this. “What happened to Bran and Mother was very frightening. All of us were somewhat shocked, I think, and a few days to recover with only family here were helpful.”

Arya made a small snorting sound from where she was seated further back in the room beside Rickon, but said nothing. Sansa looked up at her mother and was not surprised to see her fixing her sister with an icy blue glare. Arya bit her lip and looked down at her lap, but remained silent.

“It should never have happened,” Joffrey declared forcefully, seemingly oblivious to Arya’s rudeness. “When you are my wife, you shall have better protection than a pack of Northern savages. My father has offered more guards for you now, but your father won’t have them.”

“We don’t need them!” Arya said angrily, jumping to her feet. “And don’t you dare insult my father’s men!”

“Arya!” Mother said just as the queen rounded on Sansa’s younger sister.

“You will learn your place, girl!” she hissed. “You cannot speak to a crown prince in such a manner and expect no retribution.”

“He called my father’s men savages!” Arya protested.

“Arya Stark, you will apologize to Prince Joffrey immediately,” Mother said in a voice that sounded as hard as Father’s ever did. Sansa looked at her and saw she was standing as well, her bandaged hands clenched as if she were attempting to hold herself still. Her eyes blazed with fury, but it was plain to Sansa that Arya was not the object of her anger regardless of the order she’d given her to apologize.

“But he . . .” Arya started to say, her lip quivering slightly as she looked at Mother.

“He is the crown prince,” Mother said in a voice dropped so low, it was almost a whisper. She looked at Arya with something that almost looked like pleading in her eyes. Sansa was not used to seeing Mother look at any of them like that.

Arya bit her lip and then turned toward Joffrey, bowing her head. “I should not have spoken rudely, Your Grace,” she mumbled. “I beg your forgiveness.”

“You don’t deserve it,” Joffrey said coldly. Then he looked toward Sansa. “But I fear this unpleasantness has distressed my gentle lady. For your sake, Lady Sansa, I shall overlook your sister’s discourtesy.”

“Thank you, my prince,” Sansa replied. She looked back at Arya who glared at her. Sansa glared back. It wasn’t her fault that Arya was in trouble again. Arya should thank her for keeping Joffrey from remaining angry at her.

“Lady Stark,” Joffrey said, turning toward her mother. “I would very much like to have Lady Sansa walk with me as we’ve had little chance to speak since our arrival here. My man will accompany us, and I assure you she is always safe with me.”

Mother bit her lip, and Sansa almost laughed to see it as for the tiniest fraction of a second, Mother looked a bit like Arya which struck her as funny. While Mother did not look her best at the moment and was never quite as beautiful as Queen Cersei, she was a very pretty lady and looked nothing like Arya Horseface.

“I am not certain that . . .” Mother started to say, but the queen interrupted her.

“Oh, let the two of them go. It can only be good for them to know each other more. And while the Hound is certainly ugly, he’s more than adept at keeping Joffrey safe.”

At the same time, Arya cried out, “The Hound?” and Joffrey said, “I am more than capable of keeping myself safe, Mother, but I intend to keep my Dog with us to give my lady added protection.”

The Hound frightened Sansa, in truth. His ruined face was the stuff of nightmares, and he always seemed angry at everyone. Even Joffrey. But she supposed she could stand being around him if her prince was with her. Looking at her sister’s face now, Sansa felt a twinge of guilt over her anger a moment ago. Arya looked utterly miserable. And what Joffrey had said about Father’s men had been rude, really. She knew it was only his worry for her safety that made him speak so, but Arya likely didn’t see that. Even Mother had been angry at those words. Sansa could tell.

“My husband has asked that Sandor Clegane not be allowed in the Tower of the Hand at all,” Mother said carefully.

“We were made aware of that upon our arrival,” Queen Cersei said quickly, before Joffrey could react. “My son was understandably offended by the exclusion of a man sworn to guard him, but I assured him it was likely a misunderstanding of some sorts. Clegane awaits just outside and can accompany our children wherever they wish to go.” Her voice was courteous enough, but Sansa thought she heard something beneath her words—almost like a threat. She didn’t like to think such things of the queen, but her voice reminded her of other words the queen had once spoken. _We have other wolves._ Sansa didn’t want to remember that. It hurt too much to remember that.

“I assure you no offense is meant, Your Grace,” Mother was saying. “My lord husband knows that Clegane obeys Prince Joffrey, and therefore he certainly would not threaten us here.” Mother’s voice sounded almost too polite as she said that, and Sansa hoped the queen could not see how false her smile was. “It is only that the children have seen too much of violence since we left Winterfell, and I fear that the man’s presence reminds all of them of that little boy’s terrible death on the road here.”

 _Arya, you mean. It’s Arya that cried so for the dead butcher’s boy._ His death had been horrible, but so had everything about that day. Nothing could change it now. The boy was dead, and so were Lady and Summer, and nothing would bring any of them back. Arya had to forget that poor boy. _Have you forgotten Lady?_ a small voice inside asked her.

“That entire business was regrettable,” Queen Cersei said. “But I fear such things come of children consorting with the wrong sorts of people, not to mention wild animals. Hopefully, lessons were learned.”

Sansa found herself unable to look at her sister. _It wasn’t my fault!_ she thought desperately. _Everything was fine until you had to ruin it! You always ruin everything!_ But even as she thought it, she found she couldn’t quite return the smile the queen was giving her now. _We have other wolves._

“Please, Mother,” came the prince’s voice. “Let’s not speak of that. It upsets my lady.” 

She was able to smile at Joffrey. Her golden prince looked at her with concern and kindness in his eyes as he spoke, and she turned then to her own mother.

“Please, Mother, may I go with Prince Joffrey? We won’t go far. The godswood, perhaps. It is pretty there.”

“The godswood?” Joffrey laughed. “Mayhap you can show me how your father prays to trees, my lady.”

He didn’t mean to mock the Old Gods, she was certain. He only wanted to be clever and funny to make her smile. So she smiled.

Her mother was not smiling, but after a moment, she said, “Very well, Sansa. But you must keep your own guard with you as well. Your father would not have you outside the Tower without a Winterfell man.”

Joffrey looked as if he wanted to protest, but the queen quickly said, “Excellent! I’ll stay and keep Lady Catelyn company while you take a brief stroll, and then you can return for me here, Joff.”

She made no mention of Arya or Rickon, but Sansa knew the queen didn’t particularly approve of either of them. She couldn’t really defend Arya’s behavior, but Rickon was only young. And he’d been remarkably still and silent since the queen and Joffrey had been here in the room. She smiled at her little brother before she and Joffrey took their leave.

“It will be your place to look after the ladies here now that the Prince is leaving with me,” she told him. Rickon liked being treated as if he weren’t still little more than a babe. Except when he insisted upon climbing into bed with her at night.

“I don’t want you to go with him,” he muttered sullenly, glaring toward Joffrey almost as blackly as Arya did. Sansa immediately regretted speaking at all. 

“I’ll return before you even have a chance to miss me,” she said as brightly as she could, hoping he’d not say anything else before she and Joffrey left.

He didn’t, and the two of them took their leave. As she walked through the corridors of the Tower with her hand on Joffrey’s arm, she felt happier than she had since the man had attacked Mother. Happier than she’d been since Lady was killed. _I don’t want to think about that._

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it, and when the Hound met them just outside the gates, she couldn’t help shuddering.

Joffrey laughed. “He does have a face to frighten children, but you needn’t worry. He only bites those I tell him to bite.”

It seemed a rude way to speak about the man right there where he could hear. Besides, it wasn’t his scarred face which had upset her then, but the memory of the butcher boy he’d cut down. She hadn’t seen the body, but she’d heard the men speak of it. Mother had refused to speak of it when Arya asked if he’d really been broken in pieces, so it must have been horrible. 

“Stand behind us, Dog,” Joffrey said then. “I’m afraid you’ve chased away Lady Sansa’s smile, and she looks prettier when she smiles.”

The man immediately moved behind them, and Sansa forced herself to turn and look at him although she tried to focus only on the unscarred side of his face. “Thank you for accompanying us, Ser Clegane.”

“I’m no Ser,” he growled at her.

“My lady,” Joffrey snapped at him. “You are no knight, but she is a lady, and you will address her as such.” He turned to smile at Sansa once more. “And you needn’t address him at all, if you don’t wish. He’ll follow along as he should regardless.”

“I only meant to be courteous, Your Grace,” Sansa said.

“Of course. You’re always courteous. I don’t know how you ever learned it living in that godsforsaken wasteland, but I thank the gods you aren’t rude and ugly like your sister. I think you can learn to be a proper queen.”

She didn’t like his calling Winterfell a wasteland. She knew it was nothing compared to the Red Keep. But there was honor there. Her father was very much a proper lord, and only the queen herself could claim to be a finer lady than her mother. It wasn’t fair of him to judge all the North by Arya. “My lady mother has always taught me to be courteous. As has my septa.”

“Ah, that’s right. I forgot that your mother at least comes from a more civilized place. And you do have that tiny little sept at Winterfell. Of course, your mother’s been in the North so long now, she’s more Stark than Tully, I think.” He said that as if being a Stark were a bad thing, and Sansa had to stifle the reflexive impulse to defend her family name. _Arya would have told him that the Starks are older than the Baratheons,_ she thought. _That the Starks were kings for more than a thousand years._ She was surprised to realize that she thought of Arya’s likely responses with something akin to admiration rather than irritation. That was stupid. Saying such things would only make Joffrey angry, and he was so much nicer when he wasn’t angry.

“Smile.” It had the tone of a command, and she looked at him, realizing that she had begun frowning as she thought. “You really are prettier when you smile, and I like you pretty.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “It has been a difficult few days, Your Grace.” That was true enough, even if it hadn’t been what made her frown.

He smiled at her then. “My poor Sansa. I shall make it my duty to bring your smile back then.”

She felt the color come into her cheeks at his lovely words. This was her prince. Her real prince. He wouldn’t say such wonderful things if he truly believed her to be a savage from an uncivilized House.

“You do make me smile, my prince,” she said, finding that she couldn’t stop smiling at him then.

He laughed. “It seems that I do!” he said, sounding rather pleased with himself. “Good. As those lips are to belong to me, I would have them smiling whenever I see them. A king deserves a beautiful wife, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I do, Your Grace. I hope that I do not disappoint you.”

He laughed again. “I do not think you will disappoint me, Sansa. Not as long as you remember how to smile for me.” 

He then began to tell her of the new sword his father had promised him, and how it would be much finer than Lion’s Tooth had been, and how he would become an even greater swordsman with it. She smiled at his enthusiasm and his eagerness to be a great knight and a great king. She could almost forget the two men who trailed behind them as they walked. She could almost forget that even here within the Red Keep she required protection from some unknown villain who wished her family harm. She strolled along with her prince and knew that all would be well as long as she smiled at him. She couldn't believe anything else.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Arya Stark watched her sister walk out of the room with Joffrey Baratheon and feared she had lied to her father when she’d told him she didn’t hate Sansa. Because right then, she wasn’t certain whether she hated Joffrey or her sister more. Joffrey was a horrible, evil boy who said and did terrible things, and no one could make him stop. She hated him and wished that Hound had cut him to pieces instead of Mycah.  
But Sansa didn’t hate the prince at all. She smiled at him and lied for him and wanted to be his queen, and having her sister do those things was almost worse than the things Joffrey did.

“Arya, I believe Rickon is tired. Would you take him to his room, please?” 

Rickon didn’t look tired to Arya, but Mother sounded very tired. She thought Mother hated Joffrey, too, even if she _had_ made her apologize to him. She knew Mother hated Queen Cersei even if she wouldn’t ever say so. She wanted nothing more than to leave this room, but she would feel bad leaving Mother here with the awful queen.

“I’m not tired!” Rickon insisted. “I want to go see Bran!”

“But your mother has told me your brother is still too ill for visitors,” the queen said, looking at Rickon.

“I can go see Bran! I’m allowed!” Rickon said more loudly.

“Rickon Stark! You will cease that yelling now.” 

As little as he was, even Rickon thought twice about crossing Mother when she used that voice, so he fell silent, simply crossing his arms across his chest and sticking his lower lip out.

“It must be a trial,” the queen said in a horrible fake sort of voice, “to have such willful children. I cannot imagine being so constantly disappointed by the behavior of my own children.”

Arya wanted very much to tell this woman that her children were the worst children ever. Well, maybe not Tommen. He was just a little boy like Bran. He seemed nice enough—just more afraid of things than any seven year old boy should be. She thought Rickon was probably braver, and he still wasn’t even four. But she didn’t hate Tommen. She only hated Myrcella because Septa Mordane and Sansa both thought she was so wonderful. And she wasn’t. She was just the same as Sansa and her friends. Only younger. And not even as good at sewing. But the princess believed she was wonderful because everybody told her that all the time. She wasn’t really any worse than Sansa, Arya supposed, but right now she didn’t like Sansa either. And Joffrey was pure evil. Joffrey really was the worst child ever.

“My son would never dream of speaking to a guest in such a manner,” the queen continued.

“Do you mean Tommen, Your Grace?” Arya asked, smiling a horrible fake smile of her own.

“What do you mean by that, girl?” the queen snapped. 

_Well, obviously you can’t mean Joffrey because he’s horrible to everybody,_ she thought angrily, but she looked at her mother’s pale, tired face and simply said, “Only that I think Tommen is a very courteous boy. I’ve never heard him say anything rude to anybody.” She spoke as sweetly as she could and saw her mother cover her mouth quickly and look away.

The queen narrowed her eyes at her, but then said only, “He is a sweet boy. Mayhap he can be a good influence on you and your youngest brother while you are here.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Arya answered.

Rickon had not moved since Mother had silenced him, and Mother walked over and knelt down before him. He uncrossed his arms and reached for her, but Mother shook her head sadly.

“I am still not allowed to lift you, I’m afraid, sweetling. But you are tired, whether you believe it or not.” She turned toward Arya, and from where she knelt, the queen could not see her face. “Arya, I fear Her Grace and I will not be able to enjoy our visit together in the presence of a tired child.” Mother twisted her mouth a bit as she said ‘enjoy our visit together,’ and Arya bit her lip very hard to keep from smiling. “Please take him so he can rest.” Mother tilted her head slightly and widened her eyes, and Arya realized she hadn’t said specifically where to take him.

“Yes, Mother,” she said. “Come on, Rickon.”

Rickon still looked rather unhappy, but he must have figured that going anywhere away from Queen Cersei was an improvement because he took the hand she held out to him and nearly dragged her toward the door.

“It was kind of you to come to see us, Your Grace,” Arya said as she allowed her brother to pull her away. It was hard not to laugh as she imitated Sansa’s voice as well as she could.

The queen appeared too stunned to reply, and Mother covered her mouth again as she returned to her seat. Ayra grinned as she turned to walk out of the room.

“I’m not tired,” Rickon insisted once they were in the corridor.

“I know,” she told him. “We’re going to see Bran.” 

He grinned at her. Then his little face twisted up with concern. “But Mother will be angry.”

“No she won’t. She wants us to go see Bran.”

“But she said . . .”

Arya sighed. It was impossible to explain things to someone as little as Rickon. “You’re not supposed to say rude things to the queen, Rickon. And it would have been rude for Mother to tell her that neither of us wanted to stay there and listen to her talk.”

“I don’t like her,” Rickon said with scowl.

“Neither do I. And Mother knows that so she gave us both an excuse to get away from her.”

“Oh,” he said, although she wasn’t sure he really understood. “And she won’t be mad if we go see Bran?”

“No. I promise she won’t be mad.” 

When they reached Mother’s room, she was surprised to see her father coming out of it. 

“Father!” Rickon shouted, running to leap up into his arms.

Father raised him up and kissed his auburn curls, but spoke to Arya. “Where is your mother? Is she still with the queen?”

Arya nodded. “She told me to take Rickon away. He doesn’t like the queen, and he wasn’t being very courteous."

“You don’t like her, either!” Rickon countered. “You said so!”

Her father didn’t look pale the way her mother did, but he did look nearly as tired. In spite of that, he smiled just a bit. “And were you discourteous as well, Arya?”

“I suppose,” she said truthfully. “But mostly to Joffrey, and only because he deserved it.”

“Joffrey?” Her father looked alarmed. “The prince is here as well? Harwin told me only that your mother had taken you all to meet the queen who had come for a visit. You mustn’t antagonize that boy, Arya! We have spoken about this.”

“I know, Father,” she said as contritely as she could. “But he says such terrible things. He called your men savages.”

“I know it is difficult, Arya, but you must learn to hold your tongue around the prince. Nothing good can come of provoking his anger toward you.”

“Nothing good comes of everyone letting him be horrible all the time, either!” she argued.

Before her father could respond to that, Rickon began squirming in his arms. “I wanna go in and see Bran.”

“Go on then,” Father told him, setting him down. He opened the door to Mother’s room. Harwin stood just inside it, and Rickon ran past him to get inside.

“Keep him here with his brother until Lady Catelyn or I return. And don’t let him jump around upon the bed.”

Arya grinned as her father added the last. She couldn’t see into Mother’s room from where she stood, but she had no doubt that Rickon had run immediately to the bed and climbed in it with Bran. He didn’t always remember to be careful of Bran’s leg.

“Your brother did not wish to see the queen?” he asked Arya seriously once the door was closed again.

“None of us _wished_ to see her,” Arya replied. “Well, except for Sansa, of course. But Bran really, really didn’t want to see her. He acted almost scared.” She looked up at her father to see what he would say to that, but he made no reply. He simply looked thoughtful.

“So instead of letting her come here to her room, Mother made all of us go meet her in a room downstairs and told her Bran wasn’t well enough to receive visitors yet. And the queen made a big deal about how that would disappoint Tommen. But she didn’t even bring Tommen. Just stupid Joffrey.”

“Arya,” her father said with a slight frown.

“Just Prince Joffrey,” Arya amended.

Father smiled at her. “And your mother and sister are with them still?”

She shook her head. “Joffrey wanted to take Sansa out for a walk.”

“And Catelyn allowed it?” her father asked sharply, suddenly looking alarmed.

“I don’t think she could really say no,” Arya said defensively. “Even though I could tell she wanted to. She made Sansa take Jory as well.”

He nodded. “That is good, at least.” He sighed. “I suppose I should go and greet the woman.”

“Not the woman. The queen.” Arya grinned at him as she called attention to his referring to Cersei Lannister almost as rudely as she referred to Joffrey.

“You are right,” he laughed. “The queen.”

“Mother will probably be glad to see you. The queen was being pretty awful. Although she might be better since Rickon and I aren’t there for her to insult anymore.”

Her father didn’t say anything, and she started to move toward her mother’s room.

“Oh,” he said suddenly. “I nearly forgot. I need you to go to the Small Hall. Take one of our guards with you, please.”

“Why?”

“Because I am telling you to go,” he said.

“But why?”

He sighed. “Do you recall that I told you there would be conditions to my allowing you to keep your Needle?”

Arya nodded, wondering what he intended to make her do.

“Well, this is one condition I believe you will be pleased about. Later, your mother and I will discuss with you what we expect from you in return for it.”

“Mother? You told her about Needle already?” Arya felt suddenly very alarmed.

He nodded. “I told you I would.”

“But . . . but she didn’t say anything to me about it at all today.”

“Likely, she doesn’t know what to say to you, child. She wasn’t pleased. I doubt that shocks you. But she has agreed that you may keep the sword.”

Arya found that almost impossible to believe. “Was she angry?” she whispered.

He looked at her carefully. “Yes, a bit. At Mikken, for making the thing. At me, for allowing you to keep it. Certainly at whomever gave it to you.” 

He regarded her questioningly, but she was not about to tell him who gave Needle to her. Mother didn’t need another reason to hate Jon. And if she knew Jon had given it to her, she’d probably take it away from her, whatever agreement she’d made with Father.

“She wasn’t angry with you, though, Arya.”

Arya looked at him in frank disbelief.

“She wasn’t. Stunned, yes. And worried. But not angry. I am counting upon your cooperation in all that we ask of you to make certain she doesn’t become angry.”

“All right,” she said, still hardly daring to believe her mother wasn’t going to take her sword away. She hadn’t seemed angry with her today, though. Not even when she’d made her apologize to stupid, rotten Joffrey.

“First of all, Needle remains our secret. No one knows of it save you, your mother, and myself. Secondly, you will go to the Small Hall now to meet your new dancing instructor.”

“Dancing instructor? Why do I need a dancing instructor? I don’t want to . . .”

“Arya,” her father interrupted sternly. “You will do as I say in this, remember?”

Glumly, she nodded. If she had to take dancing lessons in order to keep Needle, she supposed she could suffer through. This was probably something her mother had demanded. Dancing wasn’t as miserable as sewing, at least. She hoped these dancing lessons might cause her to miss sewing with Septa Mordane sometimes. That would be nice.

“Go on now, Arya. I don’t want you to be late. The guard who escorts you there need not stay. I know when you will finish, and I shall come get you afterwards, myself.” He twisted his mouth wryly. “It was my intent to take you there myself as well, but I am not certain it is entirely safe to leave your mother alone any longer with the queen. Not if half of what she told me of her journey in that wheelhouse is true.”

Arya grinned at him. “Mother is being very courteous to Her Grace. But I don’t think she likes her any more than Rickon or Bran or I do.”

Father didn’t deny that. He only gave her a quick smile before he started down the corridor. 

Arya then went to find someone to walk her to the Small Hall. She thought it entirely unnecessary for her to be escorted the short distance, but she didn’t want to risk angering her father over it. Surprisingly, she found herself actually looking forward to the stupid dancing lessons. It was at least something other than being cooped up in the Tower of the Hand. Her father had said he believed she would be pleased. It would at least be time away from here, away from Sansa, away from Septa Mordane, away from princes and queens and other horrible people. And her mother wasn’t going to take Needle away. If she looked at it that way, these dancing lessons might be very pleasing, indeed.


	6. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the abysmally long delay in updating this fic. Life has not been cooperative with writing for quite awhile now, but I hope finally finishing this chapter is simply the first step in more frequent writing in days ahead.

The Lannister woman glared at the door for several moments after Arya and Rickon left the room, and Catelyn forced herself to remain silent, reminding herself that not only was this woman the queen, but that Lysa believed her guilty of murder. She could do far worse to the children than glare after them if she chose, and Catelyn had to remember that protecting them from actual harm was far more important than defending them from the awful woman’s scorn. 

“I don’t know how you tolerate such behavior, Lady Stark,” Cersei finally said, turning back to face her with a condescendingly pitying expression. “Of course, it’s likely the Northern influence to blame. You certainly never behave so rudely.”

“Much has happened since we left Winterfell, Your Grace,” Catelyn said as mildly as she could, ignoring the not-so-subtle insult to her husband’s House and people. “I fear none of us is at our best, including the children.” Nearly having to grit her teeth, she forced herself to add, “I do apologize for any offense they’ve given.”

Cersei waved her hand as if to indicate an apology was unnecessary although Catelyn knew perfectly well she’d have been angry if she hadn’t received one. “Is that wine?” the queen asked after a few moments of somewhat uncomfortable silence, motioning to the small table beneath the window where Vayon had set out refreshments.

“There is wine, Your Grace,” Catelyn answered, “As well as water and tea and some small cakes. Would you like me to get you something?”

Again, Cersei waved her hand, rising from her chair. “Don’t get up, my lady. You are scarcely out of your bed, after all. I can pour my own wine.” The woman walked to the table and poured a large portion of Arbor Gold into one of the goblets. Apparently, her concern for Catelyn’s well-being did not extend to serving her as she returned to her seat without asking if she wanted anything. “Ah,” she said, after sitting down and taking a rather longer drink than Catelyn thought was proper for a lady. “I see you’ve availed yourself of the Red Keep’s wine cellars. This is very good.”

“His Grace very generously sent an invitation to my lord husband to have our steward provision our quarters from the castle’s stores. Lord Stark will see that Vayon keeps an accurate accounting of everything we use.” Catelyn hoped she managed to keep her voice at least courteous. She knew it held little warmth. She wondered how long Sansa would be gone on her stroll with Joffrey and hoped desperately it wouldn’t be too long.

“No matter,” Cersei said rather dismissively. “Robert won’t care. Nothing is too good for Eddard Stark.” 

Catelyn fought the urge to respond to the venom in the other woman’s voice, and said simply, “My lord husband will only take what is needed, Your Grace. The North is not a land that breeds wastefulness or ostentation in its people.” 

“Well, I suppose that might be considered a virtue, although I cannot imagine you take any joy in living in that dreary place. And I do hate that your children are such a trial to you, Lady Stark,” Cersei Lannister said, her voice once more dripping with false sympathy. “Especially with you scarcely recovered from your ordeal!”

Catelyn looked down at her bandaged hands, knowing that if she continued to look at the woman’s deceitful and condescending expression, she would say something she’d undoubtedly regret. She allowed herself the space of three breaths to maintain her composure and then lifted those hands in front of her. The bandages she wore now were simply thin strips of cloth intended to keep the cuts clean and covered. They did not restrict her movement, and she could now almost close her hands completely, although it was somewhat painful to do so. She painted a bright smile onto her face. “Oh, I think I’m recovering well enough,” she said, looking from her hands to the queen. She closed and opened them twice slowly before laying them back in her lap. “See? I couldn’t do that at all just after they were sewn back together, Your Grace. And while my children may occasionally speak out of turn—as children are wont to do, I fear--they have truly been more a comfort to me than anything.”

Cersei shuddered. Still looking at Catelyn’s hands, she said, “I’m glad the animal responsible for your injuries has been put down.” Looking back up to meet Catelyn’s eyes, she continued, “Still, it is a shame that your husband killed him before he could be questioned. Had he stayed his hand, we might already know the name of the man who sent the villain.”

“Had he stayed his hand, I would be dead,” Catelyn said coldly. “My lord husband saved my life . . . Your Grace.” Only belatedly did she remember to add the honorific. _Gods preserve me from this woman!_ She felt as if she had been locked into that hellish wheelhouse again. She had barely survived that experience without murdering the woman, and she prayed that Sansa and Joffrey returned before the urge to commit regicide overtook her now.

“Of course, Lady Stark!” Cersei said smoothly. “By all accounts, your husband was quite the hero.” She smirked. “Of course, the tale going round the Red Keep is certainly sensationalized. It’s actually being whispered about that Lord Stark came to confront your attacker entirely naked.” She whispered the last as if scandalized, and Catelyn fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Our terrified son roused him from bed shouting that I was being murdered, Your Grace. I don’t think Lord Eddard gave any thought to dressing appropriately in that moment.” Her irritation with Cersei was momentarily interrupted by the memory of Ned crouching before her in Bran’s rooms, the assassin’s blood on his face and chest and her own blood dripping onto his legs as he held her hands. He’d looked terrifying, more a wild animal than a man, shaking with both rage at her attacker and fear for her. Yet he’d kissed her head and told her she was safe. _No,_ she thought, her heart speeding up as she recalled how fiercely he had loved and fought for her in those moments, _He had no concern for his appearance, you stupid woman, nor even for his own life. He thought only of me._

“Oh, certainly. We are all most grateful that Lord Stark made haste to come to your aid, Lady Catelyn. It’s only . . .” the queen paused as if she wasn’t quite certain how to continue, and Catelyn wondered what on earth the woman was getting at. “Well . . . if your son ran to Lord Stark’s bedchamber and discovered him there . . . undressed . . . I only hope the poor boy didn’t . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper once more. “Interrupt . . . anything he shouldn’t have seen.”

The woman’s insinuation was so ridiculous . . . so insulting . . . so unbelievable that it took Catelyn a moment to comprehend what she had said. “How dare . . .” she started to say, rising from her seat in anger. She caught a flash of triumph in the other woman’s eyes then, and a cold, calculating gleam that the false sympathy could not quite conceal. _I am speaking to the queen,_ she reminded herself. _I cannot lose my temper._ She sat back down, and as the Lannister woman did not speak, Catelyn chose not to acknowledge the outburst she had begun and aborted. Instead, she forced her face into as neutral an expression as she could manage and spoke clearly and calmly. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed, Your Grace,” she said with exaggerated courtesy. “My son didn’t go to my lord husband’s chambers at all. Bran knew to find him in my bed where I’d left him only a few moments before to walk Bran back to his room after he’d come to me with a nightmare.” The expression on the other woman’s face was priceless, and Catelyn couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, I did take the time to get my robe or I imagine people would have even more to talk about. But idle gossip aside, that night was terrifying, and I am thankful to the gods that Bran and I both survived.”

“Yes,” the queen said in an equally calm voice, her features smoothed once more into a pleasantly courteous, if somewhat condescending expression. “You are fortunate to have such a . . . devoted . . . husband.”

Catelyn simply nodded her head slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment to Ned, ignoring the woman's insincerity.

“I hope he is as devoted to his service to the King,” Cersei said somewhat less pleasantly. “As I have already told you, I had thought my husband would name my lord father Hand after Jon Arryn’s death. He has experience in the position, after all. But only his Northman would do for Robert.”

She hadn’t managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice, and as the queen stared intently at her now, Catelyn wondered if she’d even tried. Just as she had in the wheelhouse whenever Cersei started on this topic, she also wondered what response she was expected to give. “I am certain Lord Lannister would have been an excellent Hand of the King, Your Grace, just as he was for King Aerys. You can be certain, however, that my lord husband takes his responsibilities here in King’s Landing very seriously. His loyalty to King Robert is steadfast, and he is an honorable man who will do his duty.”

“Yes, but King’s Landing isn’t Winterfell. Playing at lord in that frozen, empty wasteland is hardly comparable to assisting the King in ruling all the Seven Kingdoms.”

Catelyn seethed. “My husband rarely _plays_ at anything, Your Grace. The North, while not as populous as other regions, is the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, towns are spread far apart, the people are diverse and not always inclined to get along with each other, and the winters are brutal. And I assure you, Eddard Stark is a very good lord to all of his people in all seasons. Your husband’s faith in him is not misplaced.”

“You believe your Northern lord will make a better Hand of the King than my lord father would?” There was a dangerous edge to the queen’s voice and her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Of course not!” Catelyn exclaimed. She considered Ned a far better man than Tywin Lannister, but wasn’t fool enough to say that to the man’s royal daughter. “I only mean to say that my husband will . . .”

“Your husband will beg your forgiveness for interrupting, my lady.” 

She startled at the sound of his deep voice and looked up to see her husband standing in the door. His eyes met hers only briefly before he turned to face Cersei Lannister and bow with a courteous, “Your Grace,” but she had seen the concern in his eyes. He must have seen Arya and Rickon. Or mayhap Sansa and Joffrey outside. He wouldn’t be pleased by that at all.

“So kind of you to join us, Lord Stark,” Cersei was saying. “Are all of your duties finished for the day?” 

Ned gave a small chuckle. “I fear my duties are never entirely finished, Your Grace. But it is midday, and I thought to see my children and perhaps dine with my lady wife before returning to those duties. I’ve no wish to intrude upon your visit, however. I simply wished to pay my respects and thank you for coming to see about Lady Catelyn and our son.”

“Well, I can’t stay much longer in any event,” the queen said flatly. “I hope the children return soon.”

“Sansa and the prince?” Ned asked, and the woman’s brows rose.

“I happened across my younger daughter in the corridor, and she told me Prince Joffrey had taken Sansa for a walk, Your Grace. That is very kind of him.”

“They are betrothed,” Cersei almost snapped, “And she’s been locked up in here with the rest of you since the attack on Lady Catelyn. He has missed her company. And he has been very concerned about her.”

Catelyn harbored serious doubts about the veracity of either of those last two statements and resented the insinuation that she and Ned were holding their children hostage, but she merely said, “He was most insistent upon taking her for a stroll, and she was eager to go with him, my lord. They are only going as far as the godswood, and one of our men accompanies them.” She didn’t want Ned to believe for one moment she had sent their daughter off with that boy on her own.

“Jory Cassel,” Ned said. Responding to the unspoken question in Catelyn’s eyes, he said, “Arya told me all about her sister’s outing with the prince.” His face was impassive, but Catelyn knew him well enough to see the spark of amusement in his eyes, and she could well imagine what all Arya had told him.

“My son’s sworn shield is with him as well,” Cersei said rather coldly. “I have already informed your lady wife that I was not pleased to find your men barring his entrance to this tower. The prince took quite some offense to it, I’m afraid, but I assured him we could clear up the misunderstanding.”

“There is no misunderstanding, Your Grace,” Ned said evenly. He didn’t raise his voice or change his expression in the slightest, but Catelyn thought the woman would have to be deaf to miss the steel in his words.

“Of course, there is!” the queen snapped. “My son is the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. His protection is essential. Sandor Clegane is his sworn shield and must be permitted entrance anywhere Joffrey goes.”

“No.” Ned shook his head as he said the word. Cersei Lannister’s green eyes narrowed dangerously, and Catelyn saw spots of color come into her cheeks.

“What did you say, Lord Stark?” she asked in voice that sounded as dangerous as it was quiet.

“I said no, Your Grace,” Ned repeated. 

At that, Cersei rose from her chair to stand facing Ned. “Do you forget whom you address, Lord Stark? Would you deny the heir to the throne protection in his own castle?”

“You are my queen, Your Grace,” Ned said clearly, “And I will never forget that. Nor would I deny Prince Joffrey protection anywhere. I would provide it for him from my own men, if asked, and I would be pleased to have the entire Kingsguard accompany him here if he wishes it . . . or any other honorable soldier he might choose.”

“He chooses Clegane, my lord. The Hound is a crude, ugly man, but he is as loyal to my House as his namesake and as vicious as the meanest dog alive. He is a weapon. And that weapon belongs to my son.”

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I have already spoken to the King on the matter of Clegane,” Ned said softly.

The spots of color in the Lannister woman’s cheeks deepened, or perhaps they only stood out more as her face paled in silent fury, her mouth forming a thin line.

“I informed King Robert that after the . . . distressing events on the Trident . . . my children are quite terrified by Clegane. Even Rickon, who is little more than a babe, knows well enough that the man is responsible for the death of the butcher’s son.”

“That boy laid violent hands on the heir to the Iron Throne!” Cersei nearly shouted. “He deserved death!” 

Both Ned and Catelyn knew the truth of that matter, having heard it first from Sansa the night Arya vanished after the altercation with Joffrey, and then from Arya herself when she spoke before Robert. Catelyn bit her lip, hoping Ned would not argue this point with the queen. It would not bring the butcher’s boy back and would only serve to enrage the woman further.

“I did not say differently, Your Grace,” Ned said quietly. Catelyn silently thanked the gods, especially as she watched the muscle of his jaw tighten briefly and knew that he thought very differently indeed. “But that does not make the man less terrifying to my children. While we are in King’s Landing, the Tower of the Hand is my home. And my children’s home. The Red Keep is King Robert’s castle, and Sandor Clegane will continue to live here and stand by Prince Joffrey’s side as his protector. Outside this Tower, I will afford him the respect of his position and never seek to prevent him from his duties, but in my home, I will allow no one entry whose presence threatens my children’s sense of security.”

“Joffrey’s Hound is no threat to your children, Lord Stark!” The woman took a step closer to Ned, holding her goblet before her almost as if she brandished a weapon, and Catelyn nearly held her breath.

Ned didn’t move back or even flinch. He only said, “Of course, he isn’t, Your Grace. But his presence makes them feel unsafe, and that is unacceptable. They have suffered real hurts and they are far from home. I would give them at least a chance to feel safe in the place that is to be their home here.”

Cersei’s green eyes looked at Ned with malice. “It is not your place to ban people from anywhere in the Red Keep, Lord Stark. Whether you call this Tower home or not, only Robert has the power to make such a decree.”

“Which is why I asked him to do precisely that, Your Grace,” Ned said, still not raising his voice. Cersei deflated just a bit at those words, and Ned looked toward Catelyn. Surprisingly, she noted a hint of amusement in the depths of his grey eyes. “He gave me full authority within the Tower of the Hand to allow or deny visitors. He told me I could toss him out of here if I liked.”

Catelyn smiled at him. “Truly, my lord?”

He didn’t smile, but she saw the relaxation of his jaw, and the amusement in his eyes grew more evident. “Indeed. Of course, he also said that if I did that, he’d simply summon me to him so often I’d never see the inside of the Tower, either, so I might want to consider that!”

Catelyn laughed for the first time since she’d welcomed Queen Cersei into this room. She could well imagine Robert saying such a thing. 

“Very amusing,” the queen said, not sounding amused at all. Ned and Catelyn both turned to look at her once more. “But if that’s what Robert says, then we shall all abide by it.” She lifted her glass as if in salute and then took another long drink. 

Catelyn had paid little attention to the woman’s drinking habits in Winterfell as she’d been rather too taken aback by Robert’s penchant for drunkenness to notice anyone else’s and there had been little opportunity to indulge in wine or ale in quantity while on that terrible journey to King’s Landing. Yet as she watched the woman stroll back to the table to refill her goblet, she wondered if perhaps the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had become nearly as fond of drink as the King.

“I can get that for you, Your Grace,” Ned said courteously.

Cersei handed him her glass and turned to sit once more.

“Do you want anything, my lady?” Ned asked Catelyn.

“Mayhap some water, my lord,” she replied. “Maester Pycelle says wine is not good for me while my blood is thin.”

Cersei made a small derisive sound, but didn’t comment. Ned poured the queen’s wine and Catelyn’s water, handing goblets to both of them before pouring a small amount of the Arbor Gold into a goblet for himself and taking one of the little cakes.

Catelyn smiled at him. “I thought you intended to take a meal with the children and myself, my lord.”

“I do,” he said as he sat down in the chair Sansa had occupied before her departure. “This little thing will hardly spoil my appetite, my lady.” As if to prove his point, he devoured it in two bites, and Catelyn laughed at him. 

“Charming,” Cersei muttered under her breath. More loudly, she said, “It is time for the prince and I to take our own midday meal. I hope your daughter doesn’t keep him much longer.”

Catelyn took a deep breath. Cersei had been eager to send Sansa off with Joffrey, but now that she wished to leave the Tower of the Hand, it was Sansa’s fault that Joffrey wasn’t here.

“They should be here momentarily, Your Grace,” Ned said. “As I have to return to my duties shortly, I sent a man to the godswood to request that my daughter return that she might dine with us before I must leave. The prince will certainly escort her back.”

“Of course he will,” Cersei said shortly.

The queen’s mood had definitely soured since Ned’s arrival even as Catelyn’s had improved. The woman had no cause for complaint, though. Ned had been nothing but courteous, even if he did tell her things she didn’t like hearing. Rather than allow an uncomfortable silence to fall among them, Catelyn encouraged Cersei to speak about the younger two royal children, commenting on how her girls had become quite fond of Myrcella, which wasn’t actually true in Arya’s case and an exaggeration even in Sansa’s as her thoughts were so completely taken up with Joffrey. Not that it mattered to Catelyn at the moment. She simply wanted to get though the rest of this miserable visit, and Cersei’s smile almost seemed genuine as she spoke of her. Of course, the woman praised both Myrcella and her little brother by comparing them very favorably with the Stark children, but Catelyn found herself more or less able to tolerate the next ten minutes or so by smiling, nodding in agreement with the kind the things the queen said about Myrcella and Tommen, and simply taking sips of her water and avoiding Ned’s eyes when the woman made insulting comments about their own.

Finally, a knock at the door announced the return of Sansa and Joffrey Baratheon.

“Father!” Sansa exclaimed with a smile when she saw Ned who rose from his seat to greet her. “Fat Tom said we were to eat with you, but I didn’t realize you were already here with Mother and Queen Cersei!” She had entered the room on Joffrey’s arm, but released to walk toward her father. However, as soon as she uttered Queen Cersei’s name, she stopped and said “Oh!” in a dismayed voice, and a blush crept into her cheeks as she turned to curtsy to the queen. “Your Grace,” she said. “Forgive my discourtesy. I fear I was simply excited to see my lord father. We usually don’t see him until the evening meal or even later.”

“Well he is here to serve my father,” Joffrey said rather imperiously. “Not to sit about with ladies and children.”

“Of course, my prince,” Sansa said without hesitation. “I would never seek to keep him from his duties.”

“That’s a good girl,” Joffrey said with a smile that made Catelyn’s skin crawl.

“Yes,” Cersei said. “You are always a good girl, aren’t you, Sansa?”

Catelyn didn’t particularly like the sound of the queen’s voice as she spoke to her daughter either.

“I try to be, Your Grace,” Sansa said sincerely.

“Indeed you do,” Catelyn said, rising from her own seat. “And I’m certain Her Grace does not begrudge a daughter expressing affection for her father, sweetling.”

Sansa smiled gratefully at her, and the queen rose from her seat as well. “Indeed not. But it is time for us to take our leave, Joffrey.” She turned to Ned and Catelyn. “Thank you for the hospitality, my lord and lady. I do hope you are recovered fully soon, Lady Catelyn, and please let me know when I may bring Tommen to visit with Bran.”

“I will, Your Grace. Thank you so much for coming to see about me. It’s been lovely.” Catelyn definitely didn’t look at Ned as she said those words.

“My lady,” Joffrey was saying to Sansa. “I enjoyed our walk very much. I will call upon you again soon, when I have the time.”

Sansa smiled. “I enjoyed it as well, my prince. Thank you for escorting me.”

The prince then kissed her hand and turned to Cersei. “Come, Mother,” he said, and it sounded rather like an order to Catelyn.

Cersei gave him a rather hard look, but then smiled and said, “Yes, we must go. Farewell, my lord and ladies.” 

She took her son’s arm, and the two of them swept out of the room. Joffrey hadn’t said a word to Ned or Catelyn.

“Oh, Mother!” Sansa said, running to take Catelyn’s hands as soon as the queen and prince were gone. “Thank you for letting me go outside with Joffrey! It was so wonderful. We walked in the godswood and he told me about his new sword and how well he’s doing with his sword training. And he told me my smile is pretty and that I will make a lovely queen, and Mother, I hope I don’t disappoint him!”

“You could not possibly disappoint him, Sansa.”

Sansa whirled around to face her father at the sound of his voice, and Catelyn saw the alarm on her face. In spite of her excitement at seeing her father, it seemed she had forgotten him entirely while gushing about her walk with Joffrey. Ned’s face looked positively grim, and while Catelyn knew that was entirely due to his distaste for Joffrey and not any anger toward Sansa, their daughter did not.

“Of course not!” she said quickly. “You are lovely and smart and kind. And you are a Stark. You need never question your value, Sansa.” 

Sansa looked back and forth between her parents, and Catelyn thought she saw worry in her expression. “Sansa,” she said carefully. “I know you had a wonderful time on your walk, sweetling, but did anything at all happen that upset you?”

“No . . . I mean . . . sometimes Joffrey says things, but I know he doesn’t mean them.”

“What things?” Ned said, his voice sounding even more threatening. 

Catelyn glared at him. “What kind of things does he say that he doesn’t mean, Sansa?” she encouraged gently.

“Oh, I don’t really know . . . it’s only . . . sometimes when he talks about my being a Stark, he almost makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.” At Ned’s scowl, she very quickly added, “But I know it’s a good thing. And I know he does, too. His father wanted the betrothal _because_ I’m a Stark. So, he must not realize how some of the things he says sounds. That’s all.”

Catelyn watched her husband’s face. She prayed Sansa couldn’t see how hard Ned was working to keep control of himself after those words, and she reached out to take his hand in hers. He looked up at her at the touch, and his expression softened slightly. “Sansa,” he said softly. “You are a Stark of Winterfell, and that is something to take great pride in always. Whatever Joffrey says—whatever he may or may not mean—whatever anyone says, do not ever forget you are a Stark of Winterfell. You are Sansa Stark—daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, and you have always made us proud.”

“Thank you, Father,” Sansa said. “I’ll make Joffrey proud, too. I promise.”

“Sansa,” Catelyn said, not wanting to upset her daughter, but fearful of her determination to be everything Joffrey Baratheon asked of her even after what happened at the Trident. “Joffrey should make you proud as well. And he should never make you question yourself. A good husband respects his lady wife, sweetling, even when she disagrees with him. I told you that you need never question your value, child. And I’m telling you that your value does not depend upon Joffrey Baratheon’s opinions or moods.”

Sansa’s face plainly showed her confusion. “But . . . I want him to like me. I want him to love me, Mother.”

_Gods! She is so young! She’s only a child!_ Catelyn’s heart ached as she realized that she couldn’t make Sansa understand simply because Sansa was still a little girl, and she cursed herself for encouraging Ned to accept this betrothal. 

“Sansa,” Ned started to say, but Catelyn stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Go and get ready to eat, Sansa,” Catelyn said. “We’ll have food sent to my chambers so we can all eat with Bran. And you can tell us more about your walk with the prince then, if you like.” She kissed her daughter’s forehead. “Know that we are always proud of you, and it’s all right if you don’t understand everything about Joffrey all at once, all right? You can always talk to me.”

Sansa smiled although she still looked a bit troubled. “All right, Mother.” Then her smile grew brighter as she appeared to remember something. “Oh! I know what I’ll tell you while we eat! While we were in the godswood, he . . .” She stopped. “No, I won’t. Arya will be horrible, and I won’t let her spoil it!”

“Arya won’t be eating with us,” Ned said, causing both Sansa and Catelyn to look at him in surprise. “I’ve tasked her with something, and it will keep her occupied through the meal. I’m certain she can get something to eat later if she’s hungry.”

“But what is she . . .”

“Sansa,” Ned said. “You do not wish to speak with your sister about your time with Prince Joffrey. Would you like me to tell her about it?”

“No!”

“Well, then, don’t ask me to tell you about your sister’s activities. If you wish to know, you may ask her yourself.”

“I don’t care what she does.”

“Sansa!” Catelyn said sharply.

Sansa huffed. “I don’t mean I don’t care about Arya,” she said testily. “It’s just that whatever she’s doing, it’s probably something I don’t care about because Arya never wants to do anything I care about!”

Catelyn frowned, and Ned sighed. “Go on, Sansa,” he said. “And come to your Mother’s chambers quickly.”

“Yes, Father,” she said, and then she practically ran out of the room. Catelyn wondered if she wished to escape conversations about Joffrey, Arya, or both.

“She’s in love with that awful boy, isn’t she?” Ned asked when she was gone.

“No.”

“No? You heard her, Catelyn! She refuses to see anything but good in him! Even when she knows something is wrong!”

“She’s eleven years old, Ned. She isn’t in love with anyone. She doesn’t know what being in love _is_.” Catelyn sighed. “That’s why she doesn’t understand, my love. She doesn’t know what being in love _isn’t_ either. We told her she was to marry a prince and grow up to be a queen. The prince is the son of the king you helped put on the throne—the man who calls you brother and has made you his Hand. How can she not believe wedding Joffrey is the best thing that can happen to her?”

Ned ran a hand through his hair. “What have we done to her, Cat?”

“What we had to do. There was no good way out of this betrothal, Ned. You know that. But she _is_ only eleven. We have time. Time to help her understand things, and time to free her from this betrothal if it comes to that.”

He nodded slowly. “I only wish I felt I knew anything more than I did before I left Winterfell. I swear I feel I know less.”

She could feel his exhaustion. Between his duties as Hand and his own investigation into Jon Arryn’s death and the attack on her, he rarely had a moment’s peace. She pulled him into her arms. “Do I want to know what Arya’s doing?” she whispered.

He chuckled softly. “Probably not. But I intend to show you after we eat.” He kissed her. “She was afraid you might murder our queen if I did not come to your rescue,” he said with a smile.

“I thought about it,” she said as he nibbled at her ear. “More than once.”

He whispered a laugh and moved his lips from her ear to her neck. “I watched you think about it. ‘Tommen is a sweet, respectful, obedient child for which I am very thankful. Thank the gods I wasn’t cursed with one like your youngest boy! Of course, I’ve never seen any Lannister child behave so.’ Did Rickon try to bite her during the visit?”

His impression of Cersei was terrible, but she laughed at him anyway. “No, but I considered it. She was worse before you got here.”

“Hmm,” he said, his face against her neck. “I’ve never once felt the urge to bite Cersei Lannister. You, on the other hand . . .”

“Ned!” she squealed, smacking his arm as his teeth nipped at her shoulder. “Stop it. We’re going to my chambers to eat with the children, remember?”

“Or we could go to my chambers and not eat without the children.”

“We haven’t time for that and you know it.”

He sighed and relinquished his hold on her. “I miss Winterfell,” he said. “I miss us at Winterfell.”

“I know, my love. So do I. But we must accomplish our tasks here before we can return.”

“I don’t know if I can do this, Cat.”

“You can. You can do it because you must, Ned. And I will be with you. I promise.”

“I thank the gods for that, my lady. More than you know.”

They went to her chambers then, walking together with her hand on his arm as just as they always did. They ate their meal with Bran, Rickon, and Sansa. The boys didn’t tease Sansa as she recounted her tale of Joffrey Baratheon lifting her over a particularly muddy place in the godswood as Arya would have. Catelyn honestly didn’t think they even listened particularly. Ned didn’t look too pleased at the thought of Joffrey’s hands on their daughter’s waist, and Catelyn considered teasing him about that, but decided she really couldn’t in front of the children. All in all it was a pleasant meal, and Catelyn refused to allow herself to dwell on their troubles for that small space of time. When it ended, Ned asked her to walk with him, and he led her from the Tower of the Hand.

It was the first time she’d been outdoors since the assassin had cut her hands, and she found herself blinking in the sun. It was a hot day, even for King’s Landing, and she couldn’t resist teasing her husband. “Are you quite certain winter is coming, my lord?”

He didn’t smile. He only looked at the castle around him with a grim expression on his face and said, “More certain than I have ever been, my love.”

Unsettled somewhat by his tension, she asked him, “Where are you taking me, Ned?”

“To the Small Hall.” A tiny smile did appear on his face as he responded to that question.

“We just ate, my love.”

“We aren’t going to eat. We’re going to watch.”

“Watch what?”

“You’ll see.”

“Arya,” she said. “You’re taking me to see what Arya is doing.”

He nodded. “I told you I would find her a swordmaster, and I have.”

Catelyn sighed. She didn’t want her daughter training with a sword, and Ned knew it. They hadn’t spoken of it since he’d told her he discovered the girl with a blade hidden in her room. Catelyn hadn’t spoken of it at all to Arya. She wasn’t certain she could speak of it without becoming angry, and since she had agreed to this scheme of her husband’s there was no point in that. “I don’t want to watch my daughter fight, Ned.”

“It’s training. This swordmaster, Syrio Forel, comes highly recommended. He’s Braavosi, and will teach her the water dancing style. I’d like you to see it.”

Catelyn didn’t respond. If Ned wanted her to see this, he would take her to see it. She simply held his arm and walked with him to the Small Hall.

They entered quietly, and Ned put a finger to his lips indicating that she shouldn’t speak. They stood in the shadows just inside the doorway, and Catelyn saw that all the tables had been removed from their trestles and pushed aside, and the benches lined the walls. In the large open space left in the center of the room, a bald man with a slight build was hitting her daughter with a wooden stick. An involuntary sound of dismay escaped her lips, and Ned made a sharp shushing sound. Catelyn put her hand over her mouth and clutched Ned’s arm tightly.

Arya’s hair was pulled back in a braid, but half of it had escaped as usual, and Catelyn watched her angrily push it out of her eyes with her right hand. In her left hand, she held a wooden training sword identical to the one the man held, although she looked much less comfortable with it. She wore breeches rather than the dress she had worn to greet the queen, and Catelyn wondered when she had changed her clothes. She kept jabbing at the man with the sword, but she could not seem to hit him. He moved away from each of her attempts with impressive speed and a certain grace that did remind her rather of dancing. He now held his own wooden blade still in front of him, using it only occasionally to knock hers away rather than to hit her as she had seen him do upon entering.

“Strike me, boy!” the man commanded, and Catelyn could hear his Braavosi accent.

“I told you already, I’m not a boy!” Arya replied indignantly. She was rather out of breath, but her words made her mother smile. Arya was frequently mistaken for a boy by those who didn’t know her when she’d wander Winterfell in breeches, covered in mud from her face to her feet. And she got angry about it every time. Her daughter might chafe at being expected to actually behave like a girl, but she was quick to insist that she was one.

“And I told you it matters not,” the man said. He didn’t sound out of breath at all, even as he dodged another lunge from Arya. “Boy, girl—no matter. Here, you are a sword.” He shook his head. “A sword that does not find its mark serves no purpose. Strike me now or I shall strike you.”

Arya slashed wildly at him, and he knocked her wooden sword out of her hand with his own before jabbing her rather hard in the chest with the tip of it. 

“Ow!” Arya cried, and Catelyn started forward only to be pulled back by Ned.

“He didn’t hurt her, Cat,” he whispered.

“Didn’t hurt her?” Catelyn asked him incredulously. 

“I told you to turn your body sideface,” the man was telling Arya. “Your skinny body should be difficult to hit, but you show me your heart, see? And if you show it to me, I can stab it just so, yes?” 

Arya was standing still now, just glaring at him, her wooden sword on the floor several feet away, and the man jabbed her in the chest again several times quickly to emphasize his words. Apparently, he did not hit so hard, though, because she remained still and silent.

“Now your water leaks where I have pierced you, and you die,” the man said. “You must learn to strike me. And to turn your body as I say. Pick up your sword, boy, and we shall dance again.”

Arya let out a loud, frustrated breath and bent to pick up the training sword.

“She’s tired, Ned,” Catelyn whispered. “You should stop this.”

“If she wanted to stop, she would, Cat.” He watched their daughter as she retrieved the wooden blade and arranged herself in a stance that mirrored the Braavosi man’s. Catelyn saw her husband frown, and she wondered what Arya was doing wrong. 

“What is it, Ned?”

“She’s using her left hand,” he said, still with a puzzled sort of frown on his face.

“Oh, she always has, unless she’s corrected,” Catelyn told him. “Is it wrong to fight left-handed?”

“Not wrong, exactly . . . just . . . unusual. What do you mean, she always has?”

“Arya prefers her left hand for everything, my love. Have you never realized that? Watch the way she holds the reins of a horse or how she throws snowballs.” Catelyn shook her head. “She used to get angry at Septa Mordane for making her hold the needle in her right hand when sewing, and Maester Luwin once despaired of ever getting her to hold the quill in her right.” 

She and Ned watched their daughter circling the swordmaster, a determined look in her eye as she moved purposefully in one direction and then another, seeking an opportunity to strike. Catelyn realized she was copying the man’s movements, and while she certainly did not match his effortless grace, Arya did appear to have learned the basic steps, and she executed them well. She feinted one direction and then quickly landed a glancing blow to the man’s side.

“Ha!” she shouted victoriously.

“Very good,” the man said. “Now you are a sword with purpose.”

“You’re leaking water now!” Arya exclaimed, grinning. “Now you die!”

The man laughed. “No, such a blow will not cause me to die. But it would hurt me enough that you might quickly make another strike.” He began to dance around and made two quick movements with his sword as if striking an invisible opponent. “Just so. See?”

Arya nodded. Without another word, she pushed her hair from her eyes, took her stance, and held up her sword once more—ready to go again. Catelyn felt a swell of pride at that in spite of the fact that a large part of her wanted to grab the wooden sword away from her and tell her to forget all this nonsense immediately.

“He has her for more than another hour,” Ned whispered. “I told her I would come get her when she finished, but I must see to some things first. I’ll walk you back to the Tower of the Hand now, my lady.”

Catelyn watched Arya and her instructor for several more moments before turning to Ned and nodding.

Once outside, he looked at her with a question in his eyes.

“I still don’t like it,” she said. “But she did seem happier than I’ve seen her anywhere else in this place.”

“She has a knack for it, Cat. She reminded me a bit of Brandon, actually.”

“What?” People frequently compared Arya to Ned’s sister, whom Catelyn had never met, and Ned himself had told her that the two certainly had some similarities. But Ned rarely spoke to her of Brandon at all, and he never mentioned him in connection to their children.

“He fought left handed as well.”

Catelyn looked at him in surprise. She had seen Brandon use a sword precisely once, and she honestly hadn't cared which hand he had used. She’d been so worried that he or Petyr would be hurt, she had barely been able to watch. Thinking back on that day now, she realized that he had fought left handed. It simply hadn’t made an impression on her at the time. “I never knew that,” she murmured. “How could I not have known that?”

“You saw Brandon far less than I’ve seen Arya over the past nine years. How did I not know she prefers her left hand, Cat? I confess I’ve never watched her sew, and I’ve rarely been to her lessons with Maester Luwin, but I’ve certainly seen her throw snowballs! How did you know this about her and I did not?”

He honestly looked upset with himself, and Catelyn squeezed his arm. “You aren’t with the children as often as I am, my love. And it isn’t your task to know every little thing about them. The maester and the septa come to me about the children.”

“Maester Luwin always tells me how they are progressing,” Ned protested.

“Yes,” Catelyn laughed. “He knows you are very interested in their education, Ned. But he tells me when he suspects Robb has been staying up too late at night and isn’t concentrating as he should or when Arya and Sansa argue to the point that it affects their work or any number of little things like that—things he wouldn’t trouble you with—like making certain Arya writes with her right hand as that is what is expected.”

Ned frowned. “Maester Walys did the same with Brandon, and Brandon complained to me that it just felt wrong. But the maester would smack his hand hard if he used the left.” He looked at Catelyn in some alarm. “Maester Luwin doesn’t . . .”

“Of course not!” she assured him hurriedly. “He wouldn’t dream of striking one of our children. He simply stood over her and made certain she used her right until she grew old enough and used to it enough that she did it on her own.”

“Brandon swore having to use his right hand was the reason his penmanship was so dreadful. Holding a sword in the left hand can be an advantage because a foe does not expect it. Brandon always did love catching people off guard, and he loved swordfighting better than almost anything.”

Catelyn couldn’t help but wonder if Arya’s stitches would be less crooked had the septa allowed her to sew with her left hand, and the thought made her sad. Mayhap if she’d felt more successful at such womanly pursuits, she wouldn’t have developed such a distaste for them. 

“It still seems something I should have noticed in my own child,” Ned said, frowning at himself once more and interrupting Catelyn’s thoughts.

She smiled at him. “You likely would have, my love, had it been one of the boys. But you’ve never seen Arya train at swords before, she now uses her right hand to write, and she eats with both. The little things she has always done with her left—like brushing her hair, when she can actually be bothered to do it—are not something a man would notice. Not even a father.” 

He still frowned, but he nodded slightly. “I should get you back to the Tower so that I have time to meet with the two men I agreed to see before returning to fetch Arya at the conclusion of her lesson.”

“I can walk to the Tower of the Hand on my own, Ned, if you need to go. I do know the way.”

“You will walk nowhere in the Red Keep unaccompanied, my lady,” he said rather severely, glancing at the bandaged hand which held his arm. 

She knew better than to protest. Until more was discovered about the would-be assassin’s connection to the Lannisters, she and the children would be fortunate to leave the Tower of the Hand even with armed men accompanying them. “Very well. We shall walk quickly then.” As they started toward the tower they must call home for present, she continued, “I’d like to come back to the Small Hall to meet her when her lesson ends as well, my love. I promise to have one of our men walk with me.”

“Why? I know you still dislike her doing this, Catelyn, but I have given permission, and I don’t want you to scold her.”

“I have no intention of scolding her!” Catelyn snapped, irritated at him for insinuating that she would speak against him in front of one of their children—something she had never done. “She’ll feel as if she’s sneaking behind my back whatever you’ve told her unless she sees me there herself. And I won’t have her even wondering if you’re keeping this from me. Besides, I intend to see that she eats something. She’ll never last until the evening meal. And then I intend to have her come to my chambers to work on her embroidery.”

Ned raised a brow and then looked at her bandaged hands.

“Oh, I’m not ready to hold a needle yet, but Arya seemed to hold that wooden sword much more confidently in her left hand than she’s ever held a needle in her right. I want to see if holding an embroidery needle in that hand might give her more confidence in more suitable pastimes as well.”

Ned’s eyes lit with amusement although he kept his face expressionless, and Catelyn suppressed the urge to smack him as he said, “But I thought you said Septa Mordane insisted she use her right hand.”

“She does,” Catelyn said flatly. “That’s why I’m having Arya work on her stitches with me for the present. I’ve no need to upset the septa by asking her to allow our daughter to use her left if it makes no difference to the child at all.”

He did smile then, but said nothing as the two of them walked the rest of the way to the Tower of the Hand where he left her at the entrance after extracting another promise to obtain an escort for her return to the Small Hall and pressing her hand to his lips in farewell.

The next hour seemed to pass within mere moments as Catelyn spoke with Maester Pycelle who had come to see Bran and pronounced his hip stable enough to flex as he wished as long as he could do it without pain and to be up in a chair as long as sitting didn’t cause him discomfort. Bran had asked when he could walk, of course, and the Grand Maester simply shook his head, muttering that such wounds take time to heal and that he would not risk allowing the boy to stand or walk just yet. Bran had looked devastated, and Catelyn had two of the men help her move him into a chair by the window to cheer him a bit as soon as Pycelle left. He had smiled to see the world outside her room once more, but that smile had faded when Rickon had run in brandishing a toy sword and telling how he’d fought each of their father’s men in the corridor and won. Rickon’s games with the soldiers were mere child’s play, but Bran had been anxious to train for real here in the Red Keep among the various knights, and before the night of the attack, he’d believed himself well on the way to a recovery that would allow it. Now he wasn’t so certain, and watching his little brother dance about the room on two good legs swinging the toy wildly made him scowl in a manner remarkably reminiscent of his father although he looked nothing like Ned.

She hadn’t had time to dwell upon her son’s dark mood, however, as numerous retainers descended upon her with questions. Apparently, her having received a visit from the queen and then gone out from the Tower with her husband had convinced people that the Lady of Winterfell was no longer to be treated as an invalid and could resume the daunting task of establishing and running a household in this place. When Fat Tom came to escort her back to the Small Hall, she realized she hadn’t gotten to see Sansa at all, but she supposed her elder daughter had spent the afternoon in Jeyne’s company with Sansa Mordane, likely stitching stags and lions into everything she could think of. She recalled how hard she’d worked at perfecting a direwolf during the years of her betrothal to Brandon and sighed. Sansa’s romantic notions about Joffrey reminded her a bit of herself in those years, but unfortunately she feared that Joffrey Baratheon would not become the man Brandon Stark had been and certainly would never be the man Ned was. She asked one of her maids to ask Sansa to come sit with her brothers while she was gone, suddenly feeling she couldn’t leave the Tower without having all of her children there together. Then she allowed Tom to lead her down the stairs to the entryway of the Tower, trying very hard to shake the fear she felt every time she thought of Sansa with Joffrey Baratheon.

She and Tom hadn’t taken a dozen steps outside when she heard her name called by a familiar voice.

“Cat!”

_Damn!_ Silently cursing the fact that he was the last person she wished to see, Catelyn turned to face a rapidly approaching Petyr Baelish with a pleasant smile fixed on her face.

“Cat!” he said again with a great deal of warmth as he drew near to them. She frowned slightly at him then, and the grin on his own face was quickly replaced by an expression of exaggerated contrition. “Lady Stark, I mean, of course. How pleasant to see that your husband has allowed you out of confinement. I’ve been terribly concerned about you.” His eyes fell upon her bandages. “Are you still in much pain?”

In spite of the fact that she was a bit annoyed at Ned’s insistence upon armed guards herself, she seethed at Littlefinger’s comment. “Lord Baelish,” she managed to say courteously enough. “I’ve hardly been held prisoner. But I am now well enough now, thank you. The hands trouble me only a little, and I feel quite strong enough to be out of doors.”

“And the outdoors are blessed by that fact,” Petyr said, bowing with a ridiculous flourish which she found annoying. They weren’t children anymore. As he straightened up, she noted a keen curiosity in his eyes as he asked, “And where are you going now that you have left your tower, my lady? Are you in search of your Northman? Or more lively companions?”

Catelyn suppressed the urge to slap the man. She was beyond tired of his jabs at Ned. But more importantly, she realized she did not want Petyr to know anything of Arya’s sword lessons. She supposed it wasn’t a secret, precisely. Some of their men would no doubt become aware of them as Ned would certainly require Arya to have an escort to and from the Small Hall for the foreseeable future and would not always be available himself. She trusted the Winterfell men not to speak of it, however, and she and Ned had no intention of telling their other children. _Gods, it would break poor Bran’s heart and likely cause him to go green with envy!_ she realized suddenly. And while she might accept that Ned had at least some reason behind his decision to allow their daughter to train at arms, others would see it as a jape at best and a scandal at worst. And Petyr would delight in mocking him. Catelyn wondered if Petyr would also delight in informing others of Arya’s activities in the Small Hall, knowing full well that it would set ridicule upon her as well as Ned, and it saddened her to realize that she honestly couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t. Once she would have believed him incapable of purposely hurting her. Now, she wasn’t sure. His actions in King’s Landing thus far had been confusing to say the least.

“I intended to go to the sept and offer a prayer of thanksgiving for my recovery,” she said. Knowing that she had not been walking in that direction, she quickly added, “But the day is so fine, I couldn’t resist simply taking a stroll around. I have missed the sunshine.”

Fat Tom, to his credit, did not say a word or change expression in the face of her blatant falsehood. Petyr smiled. “You always did love the sun, Cat. It’s why I’ve often worried for you over these long years spent in the cold, dreary North.”

“You needn’t,” she said shortly. “I have found more warmth in the North than I ever knew possible. It is my home, and in truth, I miss it, even with the sun shining upon me today.”

“I am pleased for you,” he said, sounding anything but.

“Oh, Tom!” Catelyn said, turning to her Winterfell man as if she’d only just remembered something. “I had promised Vayon I would see that the tables are set up as we discussed in the Small Hall. You know—more like the arrangement we have in Winterfell?”

The man looked utterly lost for a moment, but then nodded. “Yes, my lady. Shall we go there before the sept then?”

Catelyn looked at Petyr and smiled. “I would like a chance to speak with Lord Baelish for a moment, actually. We grew up together in Riverrun, you know, and I’ve hardly seen him at all. Would you mind checking on the Small Hall for me? You know how the tables should be.”

“Lord Stark asked that I . . .”

“Stay with me,” Catelyn said quickly. “Yes, I know.” Turning back to Petyr, she said half apologetically. “I fear my lord husband has grown rather protective of me since the attack.”

“Would that he had taken such care before the attack,” Petyr said, and Catelyn could not let that pass. 

“Petyr, I have tolerated a certain amount of discourtesy from you for the sake of our shared childhood memories. However, I will not stand here and listen to you insult my lord husband. He has ever protected me, and he saved my life in the very tower we now stand before. Do not speak ill of him again!”

Petyr held his hands up in supplication. “I meant no offense, Ca . . . Lady Stark. Truly, I did not. It is only the great distress I felt upon hearing that someone dared harm you which caused me to speak such words.”

Fat Tom was practically glaring at him. He had moved even closer to Catelyn as Petyr spoke as if prepared to shield her from the man’s words.

“If you speak so again, I shall lose any desire to converse with you at all, my lord,” she said firmly. Then she turned to Tom. “Desmond is at the door. If Lord Baelish and I decide to walk any further from the Tower of the Hand than we are now, I shall ask him to accompany us. And you can go on to the Small Hall on Vayon’s errand without having failed in your duty to me.” She smiled at him, willing him to understand that she wished to keep Baelish from the Small Hall even if he couldn’t divine her reason for it.

“Very well, my lady,” he said, bowing to her. He very pointedly did not acknowledge Petyr as he took his leave and walked toward the Small Hall.

“Rude man,” Petyr commented. “Is that typical of Northern savages?”

“He isn’t rude,” Catelyn countered. “He’s loyal. And you stood here insulting his liege lord. What do you expect, Petyr? Had I not been here, he likely would have challenged you for your words.”

Petyr smirked. “Had you not been here, I never would have subjected myself to his company, Cat.”

“You still carry japes too far, Petyr. You always did,” she sighed. “Come on.” She laid a bandaged hand upon his arm.

“Where are you taking me, me lady?”

“Just out of sight and hearing of the people here,” she said, feeling a pang of guilt for lying to Tom. But she hadn’t spoken to Petyr since the day she’d asked him to look into Jon Arryn’s death, and she needed to know if he’d discovered anything. He hadn’t said anything to Ned if he had. She also wanted to remove him to a place where he could not see Ned and Arya when they returned from the Small Hall. Ned would be furious with her, but she would deal with that. And however little she could trust Petyr at the moment, she firmly believed he would never do her physical harm.

“Why, Cat,” he said with a teasing admiration, as she pulled him away from the Tower of the Hand in the direction of the godswood, “You just lied to your husband’s man! I feel as if we’re back at Riverrun, sneaking away from Maester Vyman or Utherydes!”

She laughed in spite of her apprehension. “I suppose it is a bit similar. But we never had so much to fear at Riverrun, Petyr. Since that assassin was sent for Bran, I have become even more concerned that Lord Arryn’s death was no accident.” She paused. She couldn’t tell him that she knew he had told Ned of her conversation with him or that he had promised to give any information he gathered only to Ned. “I fear that my husband now shares my concerns,” she said carefully.

“Indeed?” Petyr asked, looking at her curiously. “Has he spoken to you of it?”

She shook her head. “Ned will say nothing to cause me alarm. But I know him well, and when anyone speaks of Lord Arryn . . .” she sighed. “I can see some dark suspicion in his face.”

“I didn’t know that anything could be seen in Lord Eddard’s face save all the warmth of the Wall itself,” Petyr quipped. “But you undoubtedly know the man better than I do. Do you believe he has the mind to connect Arryn’s death with the attack on you, Cat?”

“My husband is no fool, Petyr!” she snapped.

“No, and I do not say that he is. But he is a staggeringly straightforward sort of person. Whatever game is being played here requires a creatively clever mind, my lady, and I fear your husband may be out of his league. Forgive me if my fears for you make me wary of any missteps he might make. I have been among these people for years and still find myself shocked by the intricate deceptions woven here.”

“You have always been clever, Petyr. That’s why I asked for your help.” They’d come a reasonable distance now, and the way from the Small Hall to the Tower of the Hand was no longer visible behind them. Catelyn stopped walking and took both his hands in hers. “Have you discovered anything about Jon Arryn’s death, Petyr? I am beside myself with worry. Someone came to kill my child, and we have no clue as to who it might be!”

She saw the gleam in his eye at his words. He now believed Ned hadn’t told her what he had said about the dagger. It appeared that pleased him. 

“I fear there is little to be learned about Lord Arryn’s death, Cat,” he said, the gleam extinguished in a look of sorrow and sympathy. “I have made all the inquiries I could. I wish Lysa had not departed so quickly after her husband’s death. She may be able to shed some light on the matter. Have you written her?”

She has written me, Catelyn thought darkly, thinking of the terrible encoded message she had received from her sister. “Only to express my sympathy,” she said aloud. “I hardly feel it appropriate to interrogate my sister about her husband’s death, Petyr. She left King’s Landing so suddenly . . . she must have been distraught. And you know Lysa. She can be . . . difficult to speak with . . . when she is upset.”

“She hasn’t your strength, Cat. Or your mind.”

“The years have not treated her kindly, Petyr. All those lost babes . . .”

“And the years have been kind to you?” He looked meaningfully at her bandaged hands which still held his.

She dropped his hands and drew herself up to her full height, looking down into his eyes. “Yes,” she said clearly. “I fear for my family in this place. I wish Robert had never come to Winterfell to bring Ned here. But until that day, the years have blessed me, indeed.”

“Living in the North with a man who makes you raise his bastard.” Petyr shook his head slowly and looked at her with pity. “Lysa told me how he shamed you. How angry you were. You needn’t defend him to me, Cat. You are more than he deserves.”

Petyr’s mention of the bastard hit her like a slap in the face. As terrible as King’s Landing had been, her mind had at least been mostly free from thoughts of Jon Snow. Aside from mentions of him in Robb’s letters and her conviction that he was responsible for Arya having a sword, the boy had not been the constant presence in her life that he was at Winterfell. But now Petyr threw him in her face as evidence of her husband’s disregard for her.

“I will not speak of that,” she said shortly once she had regained her equilibrium. She could see in Petyr’s face that he knew he had hurt her, though, and she cursed her own face for betraying her. “Nor will I discuss any private affair of my lord husband with you or anyone.”

“Of course, you won’t,” Petyr said, looking at her with an odd mixture of sympathy and victory that she couldn’t quite decipher. “Family, Duty, Honor. The man would do well to confide in you, Cat, as it is not in your nature to betray your family—even if he has betrayed you. Unfortunately, it seems he is not that wise.” He sighed deeply, taking her hands in his once more. “I am sorry to tell you this, my lady, but I already told Lord Stark precisely to whom the dagger that maimed these lovely hands belongs.”

He had looked down at her hands as he spoke, but now looked directly into her face, undoubtedly wanting to see the shock and betrayal she would feel at such a revelation. Still reeling at the way Petyr had used Ned’s bastard in an attempt to manipulate her, angry at him for purposely trying to set her and Ned against each other, and even angry at Ned for bringing bloody Jon Snow to Winterfell and providing Petyr a way to hurt her, she simply withdrew her hands from his and turned away. She had no idea what showed on her face now. Let Littlefinger imagine what he wished.

“How would you know that?” she asked, hating that her voice sounded choked.

“Because it once was mine, sweet Cat. I lost it in a wager to Tyrion Lannister, but it kills me that any weapon ever connected with me ever caused you harm.”

He sounded so sincere, Catelyn could almost believe him. But he had sought to hurt her intentionally with his words, and she couldn’t forget that. “Why would Tyrion Lannister wish harm on Bran?” she asked softly.

He put a hand on her shoulder. “I do not know. But I do know the Lannisters cannot be trusted. I fear the influence they hold over the king.”

She turned around to face him, shaking his hand from her shoulder as she did so. “And what do I do with this knowledge, Petyr? If my lord husband has chosen not to take it to the king, I certainly can’t.”

“You can do nothing. But be on guard. Trust no one.”

_You would have me include my own husband among those I do not trust._ “Not even you?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes and willing her face to give away as little as Ned’s did.

“You, alone among everyone in the Red Keep, can indeed trust me, sweet Cat.” He smiled. “I thought I saw you earlier, you know. Walking in the godswood with the prince. For a moment, I believed myself in Riverrun once more.”

“My daughter,” she said, feeling a chill in her spine at the look in Petyr’s eyes.

“I thought as much. She is a vision, Cat—just as you were. There’s nothing of Stark in her at all.”

Catelyn found that she very much did not wish to discuss Sansa with Petyr. “She favors me in her appearance, that’s true. But she has her father in her as well, I assure you. Now, I must get back. Thank you for all you have told me.” She felt she would learn nothing more from the man, and she wanted very much to get away from him.

“Cat!” he called as she turned to go back to the Tower of the Hand. 

Sighing, she turned back to face him.

“Write to Lysa. It seems she left none of her household behind. I could find no one who served the Arryns still in King’s Landing. Write and ask her why she left so suddenly. Tell her you wish she were here with you so that you could comfort her in her loss.”

_I know why she left so quickly._ “Why do you want me to write Lysa, Petyr?”

He shrugged. “I feel bad for her, Cat. She’s a fragile girl, and that son of hers is more fragile still. She would welcome the comfort of a sister, and if she corresponds with you, she might tell you something that matters—something she doesn’t even realize is important.” He gave her a small smile. “It might be helpful for both of you. And both of you are important to me.”

He looked like the boy she’d known at Riverrun. She wanted so much to believe that boy still existed. _Who are you, Petyr?_ Sad, angry, and with no more real knowledge than she’d had before, Catelyn turned away and walked back to the Tower of the Hand.

As soon as she walked in, she met her husband on his way back out the door. His face was ice and his eyes were twin winter storms. “Ned,” she started.

“Come with me, my lady.” His voice was a cold Northern wind that allowed no opposition. He grabbed her arm and nearly pulled her along the corridor, up the stairs, and into his solar. As soon as he had closed the door behind them, he whirled to face her. “Godsdammit, Catelyn, what were you thinking?”

“Don’t be angry at Tom, Ned,” she said hurriedly. “It isn’t his . . .”

“Tom is a fool and he will suffer the consequences of his foolishness. But I am far angrier at my wife.” He spoke more quietly than his initial outburst but the quiet anger was no less powerful.

“Tom is not a fool.” He was gullible. The children used it to their advantage rather frequently, especially Arya, and Catelyn had merely followed their example out of necessity. But Tom was not a fool. “He came to you and told you I had been waylaid by Baelish, did he not? And told you I wouldn’t bring him to the Small Hall?”

“He told me you’d assured him you’d have Desmond go with you if you went anywhere else, too, Cat! And I come back here to find that Desmond hasn’t heard a word from you!”

She sighed. “I lied to Tom, Ned. Do not punish him for my transgressions. But I didn’t think you’d want Desmond or anyone else to have knowledge of this game we play with Littlefinger.”

“I don’t want you playing anything with Littlefinger!”

“Is that what this is? You are upset that I went for a walk with the man? I needed to find out what he would tell me, Ned! I haven’t spoken to him in days, and we both know he’s playing some game of his own—playing each of us against the other! How can we discover his game if I don’t speak to the man?” She had raised her own voice for the first time.

“You are my wife, Catelyn! And that man would have you for himself! I cannot abide having you alone with him.”

“You trust me so little, my lord?” she said coldly. “What reason have I ever given you to mistrust me?” She thought of Ned’s bastard, the woman he would not name, the way Littlefinger had used the boy to taunt her, and her thoughts put more venom into her words than she intended. “You are my husband, and I have never betrayed you. Not once.”

He heard her. He word the words she said and the accusation she did not speak. She saw it in his face. It seemed to crumble just a bit, and it hurt her to see him in pain in spite of her anger.

“I trust you with my life, my lady,” he said softly. “And my honor. I . . .” He stopped speaking and turned away, walking to the window and looking outward.

She watched him for a moment, uncertain of whether she wanted to slap him or comfort him. _Damn you, Petyr!_ She and Ned needed each other in this place more than they’d ever needed each other.

“Where’s Arya?” she asked.

“In your chambers,” he said without turning around. “She was surprised to learn you had watched her at her water dancing.”

“You told her I would come to her there?”

He nodded.

“I shouldn’t keep her waiting then.”

He turned around to look at her. “I . . . I should not have shouted at you.”

“I should not have lied to Tom.”

“Did you learn anything?”

_Did I?_ “Littlefinger is no friend to you at all, my lord. Not even for my sake. What he is toward me . . . I cannot say. But I trust him less than ever.”

Ned simply looked at her, a question in his eyes.

“He made no improper advances, Ned. But he seeks to drive us apart. To keep us from trusting each other.”

She saw him swallow. “I shall not allow him to succeed in that, my lady.”

“Nor shall I.”

He took a deep breath. “I was frightened for you,” he said softly, looking directly into her eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry for that.”

He reached out a hand and she took it. “Tell me what he said to you.”

She shook her head. “I’ll tell you all of it, Ned. I promise. But I need to go to Arya.”

He looked as if he wanted to protest, but then he nodded. He lifted the hand he held to his lips and then said, “Go to our girl, my love, and then return to me.”

“Always, my love,” she said, pulling their joined hands to her own lips and kissing his calloused one. He laughed softly, and she left to find her daughter.

Arya was sitting in her chambers telling Bran something which made him laugh. Catelyn’s heart was so warmed by seeing an actual smile on his face that she felt guilty for needing to pull Arya away. But she needed to speak with her daughter, and she couldn’t speak of these things in front of Bran.

“Hello, children,” she said.

“Mother!” Bran cried with a smile. “You should hear what Jory told Arya about . . .”

“I probably don’t need to hear whatever Jory said,” Catelyn interrupted with a resigned shake of her head. Ned’s men did not guard their tongues around Arya as they ought. They needed to remember she was a lady regardless of her headstrong ways.

“Mother,” Arya greeted her in a much more subdued manner, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Are you hungry, Arya?”

She looked up at that. “Starving.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t skip the midday meal!” Bran exclaimed. “Where were you anyway?”

“I’ve had food sent to my solar,” Catelyn said quickly.

“Your solar?” Arya said, puzzled.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “It seems there is a room here specifically for the lady of this tower to conduct her own affairs. My sister occupied it last, and she’s decorated it in the colors of Riverrun. It’s quite comfortable, really.”

“All right.” Arya stood up to follow her out. “What are you doing?” she asked as Catelyn stopped to pick up her large sewing basket. 

“Just getting something I need. Bran, I’ll return here and eat with you for the evening meal, all right?”

Bran nodded, already looking rather despondent again at the prospect of his sister leaving. 

“Where are Sansa and Rickon?” 

“Rickon complained to Father that it wasn’t fair everyone got to leave the Tower except him,” Bran said, scowling. He, of course, likely would not be able to leave the Tower of the Hand for some time. “Father seemed mad, but just told Sansa to find one of the men and take him outside for a bit. And that if either of them left the sight of their escort, he’d never let them out of the Tower again!”

Catelyn sighed. “Your father has had a rather trying day. Come along, Arya.”

Arya didn’t speak as she followed her to the solar which Catelyn had only discovered earlier that day when one of the servants who kept coming to her with questions asked her why she wasn’t using it.

“It’s very blue,” Arya said as they walked in.

“Yes,” Catelyn laughed. “There’s a bit of red, too. But blue is more soothing to be surrounded by. I think Lysa did a fine job with this room.”

Arya shrugged. “Am I in trouble?” she asked after a moment.

“No. Have you done something which should get you into trouble?”

“Father said I could have water dancing lessons with Syrio.”

“I know. I was there with him earlier.”

Arya stared at her, waiting for her to say something else.

“Eat, Arya. There’s food there on the table.”

She watched as her daughter perched on the edge of the table and began to stuff a large piece of bread into her mouth. “There are plates you know,” she said pointedly.

“Nobody’s eating except me,” Arya said.

Catelyn decided this was not a battle she wished to fight. “Who braided your hair today?” she asked.

“What?” Arya asked around a mouthful of bread.

“Who braided your hair?”

She chewed and swallowed. “Sansa did before we went to see the dumb old . . . I mean Her Grace, the queen.” Catelyn tried not to laugh. “But I messed it up when I changed my clothes.” She looked up at her mother. “There were breeches and a shirt for me at the Small Hall. I guess Father sent them. Anyway, I tried to fix the braid there, but I think I messed it up more.”

Catelyn nodded. “Sansa’s braid wouldn’t have worked well for you either. It was very pretty, but loose in the front. You need a braid that is tighter and starts nearer the front of your head to keep all your hair in place.”

Arya stared at her as if she couldn’t understand her words.

“Come to me before you go to your lesson tomorrow, and I shall help you braid your hair. With these hands, I’ll likely need you to do a lot of it yourself, but I can teach you to make a braid that won’t come down so easily.”

“You’re . . . you’re going to help me with my water dancing?”

Catelyn shook her head. “I have no desire to be any part of your water dancing. I am going to keep the hair from your face because I have even less desire to see my daughter beaten with a stick because she can’t see it properly.”

Arya stared at her a moment and a grin spread slowly across her face. “So you aren’t mad at me?”

Catelyn sighed. “I don’t understand you, child. I can’t imagine why you want to let a man hit you with a wooden sword and call you a boy.”

“I’m not a boy! I told him that!”

Catelyn smiled at her. “I know. I heard you.” She walked over to her daughter and ran her fingers through the brown hair, freeing what little of it remained in the messy braid. “I don’t understand, Arya. And I told your father I do not approve of this as a pastime for a young lady. But I am not angry with you.”

“Really?”

“Truly.” 

Her daughter smiled at her and then continued eating as if she hadn’t seen food since they’d left Winterfell rather than just since that morning. As she ate, Catelyn opened her sewing basket, and took out a square of cloth and several colors of thread along with a needle.

Finished with her meal, Arya walked over to her. “Are your hands well enough to sew again, Mother?”

“Not to sew well, I’m afraid. But I don’t intend to sew. This is for you.”

“Mother!” Arya whined. “Do I have to? Right now? You know I’m terrible at it.”

“We are going to work on your embroidery stitching, Arya. Septa Mordane and your sister are not here. For the next few days, you will work on your stitches only with me.”

Arya stared at her like she’d lost her mind. Then she shook her head and said, “Fine,” in a voice that sounded very far from fine and grabbed the cloth and needle.

“Pick whatever thread you like best,” Catelyn told her.

Arya shrugged as if she hated all thread equally, but then threaded the needle deftly, holding it in her right hand and guiding a length of red thread through it with her left. She looked up at her mother and shrugged. “The cloth is blue. I figured I might as well go with the room theme.”

Catelyn laughed as Arya sat down beside her and positioned the needle in her right hand.

“Stop,” she said. “Not like that.”

“I haven’t even done anything yet!” Arya protested. “I can’t be doing it wrong already!”

Gently, Catelyn reached out and placed the needle in her left hand, and then it was her turn to shrug as Arya stared at her with a look of complete confusion. “You looked quite confident holding that wooden sword in your left hand today, sweetling. If you enjoy holding your larger Needle in your left, I thought you might enjoy holding the smaller embroidery needle in your left as well.”

“I . . . Septa Mordane . . .”

“Is not here,” Catelyn said firmly.

Arya looked at her a moment, and then nearly smiled before bending her head to the cloth square and poking her needle through it with a look of more determination than she’d seen on her daughter’s face during a sewing lesson in a very long time.

“Tell me what you want to make, and I can help you decide where to put the next stitches,” she said softly.

Arya looked up at her. “It’s your solar,” she said. “I’ll make you a Tully trout.”

Catelyn looked at the daughter she didn’t always understand but loved without reserve, and she smiled.


End file.
